Along with many others on this fair site, I’ve always been a reader. I grew up in a family of athletes with a strong aversion to sitting still, and, while I did my best to keep up, I was always happier sitting somewhere (ideally somewhere warm) with a book and a beverage (non-alcoholic. I cannot drink and read. If you can, I commend you).
What happens when reading is stripped away? Last week, Julia Cameron posed that very question. I’m on round four of The Artist’s Way (this is not to brag, only to say that I am frequently creatively blocked to a degree where it seems like the only answer), and I just finished week four yesterday.
A primer on The Artist’s Way for the uninitiated, above
In The Artist’s Way, you move through one chapter each week for twelve weeks, each with a different theme. Week four is called “Recovering a Sense of Integrity,” but the week’s main directive, outside of the three stream-of-consciousness journal pages you must write every morning, is reading deprivation.
Reading deprivation is exactly what it sounds like. The Artist’s Way was written in 1991, so Julia’s instructions are: you cannot read books or the news. The purpose is to strip away the outside noise so you’re a. alone with your own thoughts and b. inspired to create on your terms.
The 2020s interpretation of reading deprivation is: no books; no news, whether print or online; no podcasts; no movies or television. And so, for all of last week: I did not pick up a book (RIP to my loftier-than-May June reading goals), read a Substack, watch television, read the news, or listen to a podcast. I spent a bit of time on social media (and I am quite clearly very dependent on my phone - my finger was reflexively navigating to the Instagram near-constantly; the Substack button a close second), but mainly to post photos, instead of passively scroll.
And what I realized was the extent to which I use reading as an avoidance tactic. It’s virtuous, so I can feel good about reading instead of doing something practical like sending an important follow-up email or taking care of a health matter (I shouldn’t prioritize reading over those things, but it doesn’t exactly feel shameful). Last week, I finally faced this. But first, an astrological interlude.
Okay, yes, occasionally I am that insufferable person who blames character defects on natal astrology. But hear me out (or skip this section, I’ll literally never know). Astrological signs fall into four categories: earth, fire, water, and air. Earth signs bring grounding, stability, and practicality into the world. Water signs (my moon sign; said to align with “how you feel”) are the emotional, intuitive ones—they feel a lot. Fire signs (my rising sign; said to align with “how you’re seen”) are passionate and feisty, occasionally verging into potentially offensive brutal honesty (who, me?). Air signs (my sun sign; said to align with “how you are”) are curious, communicative, and adaptable. A cautionary word from Mz. Gemini on us air signs:
air signs can struggle to fully commit to a single path due to their adaptability.
This is me to a T. I don’t have commitment issues in relationships or friendships, but I do pretty much everywhere else. I have no earth in my chart. Not one earth sign! Practicality, grounding, and stability are not my strong suits.
Unless I’m deeply interested (which means: shopping, recommending a book, or going on a trip) in a subject, I cannot engage with it. Planning in advance bores me to absolute tears. This is why I am so bad at packing. This is why this Substack is 3 days late, and why I am seemingly incapable of doing any writing work in advance. It’s why I was literally baffled in college when a friend asked me if I’d started our essay that was due a full week later. Babe, talk to me the morning of!
Anyways, without a book to fill my evening, I decided it was a good a time as any to confront those tedious little tasks.
And SO. I re-upped my contacts (YAWN), I ordered two pairs of pajamas (one for my travel bag; they were 50% off—though it’s worth noting my sister-in-law, Chloe, who recommended the brand to me, prefers the summer cotton fabric). I did an at-home blood test I was supposed to do in early May and scheduled an in-person one I was supposed to get weeks ago (it’s now done). I replaced my pilled bras with bralettes from my favorite ever brand (Americans are sleeping on this one). I ordered new pen cartridges; paid a medical bill that had been sitting on my desk; actually checked my travel itinerary for my college reunion weekend and realized my rental car was booked for the wrong time (<3) and fixed it; paid off my credit card; booked a doctor’s appointment I’d been putting off; and ordered four boxes of dish soap and a family-sized tub of dishwasher pods (unfortunately, because this is my husband’s usual domain and I didn’t tell him I was doing it, our small apartment is now essentially filled with dishwashing agents). I realized I had “Shop cash” (if you use ShopPay to buy things online, download the Shop app on your phone—you probably have cash back) to buy what MAY be the perfect oversized white t-shirt.
With all of that out of the way, I did start to feel more creative. I jotted down a number of ideas for future newsletters. I scheduled a visit to the Frick (going this Sunday). I doodled a list of the “world’s chicest scents,” which are: almond soap, orange blossom, neroli, and fresh linen. Entirely useless, but somehow did evoke the European vacation I was clearly craving; I was physically at my desk, but I was mentally on the patio of a sun-washed villa in the South of France, sipping an espresso1, reading Proust2, eating a Madeleine3, freshly bathed in a linen dress4, with hair washed with magnolia shampoo, body washed with almond soap and moisturized with baby Mustela, ready for a day of lounging and rosé on the beach.
Reading is transportive, but you’re transported into someone else’s world (same with social media, in an even less productive way). With time to daydream, I had no choice but to create my own world—one I wanted to live in, outside the dictates of what I’d read about in a Substack travel guide by someone I think is cool but have never even met or in a book or on another app on phone that day. No, my French vacation fantasy wasn’t reinventing any wheels, but I was experiencing it at my own accord, not because I’d seen a friend of a friend post pictures from Cabane Bambou on Instagram. I felt the same getting dressed. The outfit combinations I was putting together weren’t going to win innovation awards, and I’d probably subconsciously absorbed them from elsewhere, but I still felt full ownership over them, knowing that I’d spent more time playing around in my closet, because I had the time to do so.
No, I didn’t spend the week buying watercolors or writing the Great American Novel or learning something new. Outside of the off-brand admin, I literally just tried on new outfits, daydreamed about vacations, and jotted down a couple of ideas. It wasn’t the initiation into some new way of living—but it was a return to thinking on my own terms.
Whether or not you have any interest in ever doing The Artist’s Way (I completely get it if you don’t), I do encourage you to think about that one thing you do that feels like virtue but is really avoidance (exercise? work? obsessive planning?) and remove it from your week. You don’t need to expect an incredible idea to strike like lightning, but it might be fun to rid yourself of the thoughts of others and reacquaint yourself with your own mind.
I don’t drink espresso, that’s besides the point
Haven’t gotten past page 21 of Swann’s Way, we’re in a fantasy here
I know that much about Proust
Love this one! It's crazy how sometimes just the act of doing nothing and sitting with it for a bit can evoke so much. Uncomfortable at first, but very rewarding in the end!
Another winner!!!