A Manifesto for Positive Creative Action. (+PLUS+ 018)

For broader application: replace the word “writing” with any creative or meaningful or artful work. (running, programming, BBQ, fighting, painting, sermons, carpentry, farming, archery, etc.)

“Just Keep Writing” -Tim Sherman

1. A Little Grit. (My One Revenge)

I have determined, here-forth, that If i have absolutely any sense at all, God as my witness—

that each morning no matter how tired or weak or pathetic I’m feeling in the dark and cold hours of quite sorrow—

no matter how groggy and dazed—psychologically fragile—burnt out—angry—limp—whimpering—hurt—pressured—fearful—spiritually dead—existentially confused—vaguely paranoid—no matter what—

So long as it is within my power to do so—I will get my body out of bed, and shuffle to the coffee maker (crawl if i have to)—make a good stiff one—maybe two—and sit down first thing to write.

SOMETHING. ANYTHING.

don’t have to be long. I’ve taken 10-15 minutes before. 15 and I can walk away from it feeling good—fully fortified going the rush of the day.

Because i did it.

Niel Gaman wrote Coraline for his daughter with 50 words ever night directly before he went to bed. (←that sentence was 18 words)

And if i don’t do it—a feeling of sadness and self hatred replaces this sacred opportunity—a lingering pain that adds up greater than any pain of mere earthly fatigue or obstacle.

If there is any revenge i desire in life, friend, It is only against myself.

For failing the mission:

To write something today.

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2. A Sacred Place.

Once i sit down and begin, it is as if I have encountered the LAST remaining sacred temple in the spiritual vacuum that is our age.

It is a holy place, gentlemen. For solace. For training. For hope.

I’ll burn some sage, or incense, a candle. Sip coffee and water, fire up the word processor or Substack or the good old notes app, fiddle with the YouTube ambient playlist, take a deep breath—if I’m smart, pray—and begin the work.

This ritual could involve anything from reading drafts, to editing, to careful plotting, to a sketch—all of which have their place.

but the highest form of the activity is what I am doing right now, that is to say riding the lighting, that is to say flowing like water from the heart of the mountain. Where heaven and earth meet.

Where contact is made.

Cold mountain water flowing—just letting go and letting God. Channeling. Feeling almost intoxicated but you haven’t drunk a single drop. You’re sober as a smooth river stone.

Those who fight, those who dance, those who run through the forest all night and day, those who create anything with enthusiasm and their hands, they experience a similar plane of possibility, a similar mania, a similar glory.

Shoot we all do, it is near to us at all times. It is there for those who look.

That possibility is one near-divinity. Hate and Love. Light and Dark. Heaven and hell. It’s all the same to you in that moment.

Because your are in the steady state of positive creative action.

There is a destiny in your gaze. You’re not even sure to where, sometimes.

You know you’re going to have answer the questions.
To Where. For what.

You have to ask.

Sometimes you hear a  whispers back. In the world. An answer to your question from a random passer by, or a whistle in the wind—it can happen anywhere.

But that’s the building tension. WHY.

Thats the bow being drawn back in the shadows—a broad steal barb aimed at your gut.

You don’t need a perfect answer yet.

The only wrong answer right now is QUIT.