I went back to voice lessons a few years ago, because I’d developed some poor muscular habits (due to a chronically inflamed larynx) that prevented me from producing the sound correctly.

My voice is in much better shape now, but I still go to lessons because I love them. (Not during the current lockdown, even though we could totally do it over video, because what is time? Scheduled appointment? These words mean nothing. Eventually I will get my shit together and sort this out. Sigh.)

Anyway. These lessons have taught me so much – and not just about singing, as we shall see.

Metaphor

Voice lessons, once you get past the very basic techniques, are all about metaphor.

Singing teachers (and choral conductors, who dish out a fair bit of vocal technique) have a great repertoire of images – they’ll tell you to picture a string connecting the top of your head to the ceiling, and then they’ll tell you to breathe in and imagine that your torso is a lampshade and your face looks like an aardvark, and then as you sing they’ll tell you to see the musical phrase as a rainbow, or a series of hills, or a cat jumping onto a spaceship (you’d think that one was a once-off, but you’d be wrong).

It’s a curious thing, trying to teach another person to move internal muscles in an unfamiliar way when nobody can really see what’s going on.

As a teacher, you can adjust a student’s posture, and you can gauge breathing support techniques using a hand on the ribcage, but nearly all of what you have to go on, to tell you whether or not the student is doing the right thing on the inside, is the sound.

The sound is the proof of the musical pudding.

If my voice sounds clear and rich and full and open and effortless, my teacher knows I’m following her instructions correctly.

If it sounds coarse and reedy and thin and squished and strained, we do another round of aardvarks and rainbows and try again.

So it turns out, right?

You’ll never guess.

It turns out that what I have to learn about voice production is also what I have to learn about life.

(Profound, no? I knew you’d agree.)

Lesson One: Trust (part 1)

Getting to that sound-production sweet spot, at least for me, is all about bringing my voice forward and not “protecting” the sound.

I have a habit of balking at the top note of a phrase, for instance, in case it comes out too flat, too sharp, or too loud. But when I pull back and protect it, that sounds almost as bad.

By protecting, we bring worry into the picture, which means we fail to be present. We judge – and what’s worse, we prejudge. And that turns our fears into self-fulfilling prophecies.

Trusting the voice is hard, and it’s scary, but it’s the only way to succeed.

Lesson Two: Trust (part 2)

The trust thing is annoying, but what’s downright weird is the fact that if I keep the sound further back it sounds better to me, whereas if I’m doing it right – making a thrilling, round, gorgeous sound – it sounds thinner and shriller from inside my head.

It’s risky to rely on your own assessment of your art.

Trying to hear yourself sing is like trying to look up your own nose: unedifying in a number of respects. The same goes for trying to gauge the emotional impact of your novel or your painting or your poem.

Can’t be done.

Lesson Three: Focus

The one thing the singing mavens almost never tell you to imagine?

The stage.

The audience.

The applause.

All of that is strictly and definitely not your business. That stuff is shimmer, not blaze. What you need to focus on is you and the work, and sending this performance out into the world as best you possibly can.

That’s where your responsibility ends.

And … breathe.

How are you finding this pandemic, creatively speaking? I must say, it has more or less ground me to a halt.

We’ve been spared anything too serious, thank relevant deities, but my older kid and I have had what we assume were mild cases of Covid-19, and for the first several weeks of lockdown, through those illnesses and beyond, there was very little art-making going on around here.

Yes, I kept my tiny promises (even the day I was in hospital), but I’ve struggled to get much further than that. My novel languishes in the mineral darkness of my hard drive, my textile projects gather dust, all my singing gigs are cancelled. (I did make a fistful of cotton face masks early on, but that feels like a very long time ago now.)

Granted, I’ve never been the sort who works best in beautifully modulated chunks, with daily art appointments written into my schedule, inspiration striking every morning at 9 a.m., and so forth. Sometimes, I’d like to be that person, but (at least in my current life configuration) I am emphatically not. Between my erratic health issues and my domestic responsibilities, with the best will in the world, all plans I make are necessarily provisional. I can’t commit to regularity, day upon working day stretching off into the middle distance like a well-built fence.

All the more so now

(unsurprisingly)

But!

(We knew there’d be a “but”.)

Recently – I’d guess over the past fortnight or so, if our puny human measurement of time retained any meaning – I’ve begun to feel a stirring. A creative rumbling, kilometres beneath, if you will (or if you won’t), the barren quotidian crust.

And the thing is, this stirring is familiar. Looking back, I’ve always had creative spikes and more fallow times, artwise. Sometimes, the frenzy is upon me and I can’t stop producing. (This was easier to handle before I had kids and chronic illness!) Sometimes, I go for long stretches doing the bare minimum on my projects, just barely keeping things ticking over.

OK, so this particular lull is the fault of a global emergency, but it is, nonetheless, a recognisable part of a known cycle.

What I’m saying is, it always swings back around

Always.

Even now.

So there’s a distinctive feeling that creeps over me when the fallow time is drawing to a natural close, when things are beginning to align again, when it’s time to roll up my sleeves and prepare for a creative spike.

I’m feeling it now. And if you’ve been finding your creative fires dampened by the awful situation we’re in, you might – now or in the future – feel it too.

It’s like being on an aeroplane…

(…remember those? You know we mustn’t go back, right? We have to come out of this grounded period with greener priorities. But look, for the sake of my metaphor and my conscience, let’s say this is a solar-powered aeroplane that furthermore has a nifty little feature whereby it actually sequesters carbon as it flies…)

OK, let’s try that again. It’s like being on an aeroplane, when the captain comes on the intercom to say, “prepare for landing”. She’s actually speaking to the cabin crew, but you hear her, and it spurs you into action. You gather all your bits and pieces, you give your rubbish to the steward, you stow everything and clip everything and tuck everything away, because once you’re on the ground it’ll be GO GO GO.

So I’m thinking, what are some of the ways I can get ready for what I know is coming?

8 Ways to Prepare for Landing a Creative Spike

I wrote this list for myself, of course, but I hope you find it useful too.

1. Tidy your workspace
   I am the worst at this. My desk is a disaster; my sewing table is an explosion in progress. My supplies, equipment, and unfinished projects are all over the house. I know from years of bitter experience that there’s nothing more frustrating than being art-blocked by my own mess. And I also know, from the few times I’ve managed it, how blissful it is to arrive at a relatively orderly space when I want to work (and don’t mistake me here: we’re talking feasible, not pristine). So I will try harder.
2. Check stocks
   You do not want to get stuck into your work only to find that you’re missing something crucial. Do you have everything you need? Supplies, equipment, the right sort of chocolate? In a lockdown it’s harder to stock up on these things, but you at least want to identify what might be needed.
3. Get vaguely up to date on email
   Yeah … I know. I just mean clear out the most glaring open loops – reply to the messages that are hanging over you, if only to say, “I’ll deal with this in 2022.”
4. Make a meal plan
   You’ll want to give all your creative energy to your work once the spike hits, and having the dreaded “what’s for dinner?” question answered in advance is a huge advantage. It also makes delegation easier, if that’s a thing that can happen in your life. Plan to get takeout now and then (budget and local logistics permitting), at least while the creative frenzy persists.
5. Look at your upcoming commitments
   Mine shrank away to nothing when everything closed, but I know that’s not the way it is for a lot of people. And of course I’m not saying cancel everything (oh, so tempting…), but just get a picture of what’s coming up, if only so that you don’t accidentally miss things because you’re in the thick of creating.
6. Find notes or sketches for your current projects
   There’s a fragile quality to this stirring feeling, I find: it can tip over quite quickly from vague creative motivation into sour frustration. The key for me is to focus my attention onto the projects I want to make progress on. Even just to look at them and imagine what it will be like to be creating freely again is helpful.
7. Go for a thoughtful walk
   Here in Dublin, we’re about to have our 2km exercise limit raised to 5km, which a lot of people are very pleased about. I’m very indoorsy, in general, but walking outside is never a bad idea! To align your creative ducks it can be just the ticket. For bonus points, put your phone on Airplane Mode (with a tight-lipped nod to the whole Prepare for Landing metaphor, there) and engage mindfully with your surroundings. (Keep your distance, wear a mask if you have one, and wash your hands as soon as you get home.)
8. Journal or doodle about what you might want to make
   Once you put pen to paper, you’re nearly there. Brace yourself, take a deep breath, and then relax into the flow. This is going to be good.

This was before the pandemic. I said, “It’s hard to get started when I only have a short time to work before I have to go and do the next thing.”

She said, “Yeah, I know. You arrive at the studio and you say well, I only have two hours…” – and then I’m afraid I can’t tell you what she said next, because at this point my boggling circuits were overloading, all sorts of exciting warning klaxons were sounding, and I had to concentrate hard to keep my jaw from hitting the floor.

“You only have two hours? Your life,” says I to myself, “is not my life.”

Two hours? TWO shaggin HOURS? Like, one hundred and twenty minutes, all joined together in a big long line?

Who has that?

People with no children, for one thing. People not in full-time employment. People in the whole of their health.

Not me.

Maybe not you either, now that we’re all locked down and trying to reshuffle everything to fit the new boundaries.

Obviously, if you have the sort of life that regularly features mythical treasures such as two-hour time-slots where you can focus on your work, that’s great. Enjoy it. Do what you do.

But let me be clear here: if you don’t have that sort of life – and many of us don’t, pandemic or no pandemic – that’s still OK.

You can still make your art.

The trick is to take the time when you can get it. Never mind two hours. With a bit of preparation, you can put two minutes to good use.

For real.

The preparation is the important part – leaving the file open on your computer or the piano lid up, having various projects ready to be grabbed and added to, according to how much time is available.

And then, when you have the luxury of ten minutes, or half an hour – or, yes, because every so often you will be able to make this happen, a clear head (remember them?) and an hour or two with all the minutes joined together like popcorn on a string – you can really get into it.

Life comes in phases.

One day, the lockdown will lift, and the headspace currently devoted to the pandemic will be freed up.

One day, I fervently hope, I’ll feel less shitty more of the time.

One day, my children will be better able to get their needs met without my help, and my time will be more my own.

But where I am now, there’s nothing “only” about two hours in which to flex my creative muscles.

And that’s OK. I’ll work with what I have.

PS: If this post rings bells for you, you might be interested in Reboot Your Creative Drive, my free course full of techniques for working creativity into the nooks and crannies of your overstuffed life.

I’ve always been creative. It’s part of who I am. There’s a thrill I get from writing, making, and performing that is (a) essential to my wellbeing, and (b) impossible to get any other way.

At the moment, what with … *gestures at All This* … it’s hard. Of course it is. We’re all struggling with adjusting to this weird new reality. That said, at least for me, things aren’t completely hopeless. It’s been worse. I’ve had periods in my life when I’ve felt stuck, frozen, blocked. Those were some really dark times – but they seem to be in the past, and despite everything, I’m pretty confident they won’t return.

I’ve been thinking about why this is, and whether there’s anything here that might be helpful to you. And so, for what it’s worth, I’ve realised that my creativity exploded when two things happened.

1. I stopped worrying about the rules

I used to be big on rules. Very big. In a low-rules environment I would hunt out or invent some rules and follow them. I’d pick up on chance remarks made by friends and turn them into rules for my behaviour when around those people.

In many situations, that’s a valid approach. It helped me feel safer, which is a perfectly cromulent aim. Eventually, though, the strategy outlived its usefulness, and I consciously unpicked most of the rule-structures I’d built up.

The heading up there doesn’t say that I stopped following the rules, it says I stopped worrying about the rules.

I still use rules in quite a few areas of my life, because I find they reduce stress, big-time. A rule is a decision made in advance, and making decisions in advance can really take the pressure off.

However, it’s true that for a long time I fenced in my creative expression with rules I’d made up but never fully articulated to myself.

Rules such as “I am allowed to write only high-brow literary fiction and poetry” or “Now that I know how to make patterns, following someone else’s pattern is cheating” or “I can’t perform a song unless I personally believe in its text”.

I’ve worked hard on dismantling those restrictions.

So my first published novel is literary (…ish? – maybe it depends who you ask), but during my career I may also publish speculative fiction, poetry, stories for children, crime, biography, cultural critique, or any other damn thing I please.

I’ve mostly made small art quilts, but that won’t stop me from launching into a king-size double Irish chain if the mood takes me.

And it turns out, despite what the headweasels think, that I am allowed to learn opera arias. Furthermore, singing cutting-edge a capella music in a kickass chamber choir (whenever we’re allowed to go back to that!) doesn’t preclude me from playing around in Garage Band or indulging my fancy for textile-based folk songs (of which there are almost certainly more than you think).

Follow rules when they’re useful. When they’re not useful, do everything you can to let them dissolve.

2. I figured out what makes my creative engine go

To be clear, I’m not trying to tell you here what’ll make your creative engine go. If you haven’t figured that out yet, feel more than free to give my choices a try, but don’t rely on their working for you.

Back in the twilight of the last millennium, when I was applying for my creative writing Master’s, I wrote a short personal statement about why I wanted to do the course.

I explained how I’d been writing ever since I was a small child, but my writing had always been shoved aside to make way for the rest of my life. I’d had the typical packed schedule of a viciously overachieving school and college student, and creative writing had always felt squeezed into the cracks.

I wrote expressively and persuasively about how much I craved the opportunity to make writing the thing I was supposed to be doing, rather than the thing I did when I stole time for it from other obligations.

Then I got into the course. Yay! All I had to do, for a whole year, was write!

It turned out to be my most blocked year ever.

I think I may actually have produced more work in my fourth undergraduate year, when I wrote my dissertation, ran a successful students’ union election campaign, and sat my final exams, than I did in my Master’s year.

It’s true that there was a certain amount of emotional stuff going on, which definitely didn’t help. But it’s also true that the exclusive focus on one art form fed into the depression.

(In reality, being me, I was not 100% focused: I also did plenty of singing, knitting, and literary translation. I don’t like to think what would have happened me if I hadn’t.)

Writing fiction was the one primary thing to which I was supposed to be devoting the bulk of my time, and I responded by running hard in the opposite direction.

Many people work best when they focus on one thing. It turns out that for me, variety is absolutely critical.

In order for variety to function properly for me, there also needs to be permission. Experience has shown that I work best – and I produce most – when I’m officially allowed to work on whatever is burning hot right now and when I’m able to jump in and work on a project when moved to do so. I deliberately set things up so that’s as easy as possible.

This is the opposite of the self-discipline / daily quota kind of approach – which, again, works for many many people.

Such an approach may become useful at a later point in my career, when I have more demand for my work and more overall control over how my day goes. But for now, full-on permission works a lot better than trying to force myself to work on a particular project at a particular time.

Before the lockdown, I’d been experimenting with having more regularity in my days, and that too was working really well for me (oh well). To be clear, I focused on developing routines and habits that facilitate and support my process, rather than trying to make them help me churn out more product.

It’s a question of balance.

Here’s the truth: I’m not as prolific as I want to be in any of my art forms. As my health – and the current unpleasantness – permit, I’m trying various techniques to see if I can increase my output.

What’s much more important to me, however, is that when I think of my relationship to my creative work, I feel a loving, energetic warmth, an excitement to get down to it. That’s priceless, and it’s something I aim to preserve, now that I’ve found it.

My top three elements of a healthy creative life: Variety – Permission – Regularity, in a beautifully flexible balance.

(What are yours?)

Did you notice?

I didn’t realise when I first drafted this post that I said “two things happened” in the title, and then proceeded to talk about two things I did.

Active verbs: “I stopped”, “I figured out”.

I have a dreadful habit of assuming I have less power than I do.

Anyway. This post is really about finding out what works for you.

If you’re looking for ideas, check out Reboot Your Creative Drive, my free course on how to bring more creativity into your life. It contains seven concrete, straightforward techniques anyone can try – even (perhaps with modifications) during a pandemic. It might be just the nudge you need.