In the Presence of Elizabeth Gilbert

A writing day in Stockholm in April, and its aftermath

The café is busy when I arrive. I feel a little guilty about taking up a spot with my laptop, but the wifi password is written in large letters on the wall, and I gather it’s okay.

I get myself a sandwich and a latte and sit down. Put on my noise cancelling headphones and open up my novel project. I sink down into it, let the world around me drift into a humming background noise.

It’s Saturday, early afternoon. I’ve had this day booked in my calendar for a couple of weeks now. A novel writing day. And then,

Elizabeth Gilbert

’s talk in Stockholm.

Saturday: writing

It’s been a while since I sat down and properly worked on my novel, but I have been sneaking in a couple of moments. And something about it has been itching.

My plan today is to look at what I have, where I’m going next, and to get my head around that off feeling.

An hour pass. I know what I’m dealing with now. I’m wrestling with one of the perspectives. There are two, and I’m very happy with one of them. The other is still eluding me.

I try different paths. Think up potential plot lines. Put my character in different situations. It keeps eluding me.

I wonder if I’m going about this backwards. The perspective that is working just rolled out of me. I haven’t analysed it much, yet I can see it’s working. It’s singing.

This other perspective, I can see that it’s not working, and I’m trying to analyse myself to an answer. Maybe I’m tackling it the wrong way.

The couple beside me has bought a mat. They’re leaving now, the rolled up mat under the man’s arm. I imagine them walking back to their city apartment, rolling it out, looking at it, feeling it under their feet, glancing at it throughout their Saturday. Enjoying that tingle of newness in a place of home.

The crowd in the café has slowly thinned and many tables are empty when I leave. I haven’t yet found a solution to the perspective I’m struggling with, and feel faintly dissatisfied.

Elizabeth: present

Before the talk, I meet up with my mum and we have dinner together. We talk about characters, and how difficult it is to pinpoint what makes some interesting and some not. How they’re like people - you can taste, feel and hear their personality, their uniqueness, but you could never fully describe it with any accuracy.

It’s biting cold for the end of April, but the city is buzzing, preparing for Stockholm Culture Night. Theatres, museums and similar places open their doors for free one night a year, and a lot of people will be walking around the city tonight.

Me, I head to Liz Gilbert’s talk. It’s so rare that authors come to Stockholm, and it feels very special to get to listen to her. Like for so many creatives, Big Magic was influential early in my creative journey, and I have read and enjoyed most of her novels as well.

The room is excited and applause smatter when Liz walks onto the stage. She encourages us to take our photos if we so wish and then put our phones away. We oblige her.

During an hour and a half, she talks about how searching for our purpose is, well, not particularly meaningful. How we’ve come to believe that we need to find a unique purpose in the world, become highly skilled at it and, of course, monetise it.

Liz turns our attention away from purpose and towards presence. To be present in our lives, our creativity, in our processes. She reminds me, us, that it’s not about the outcome. Not about the product of creativity, but about creating itself.

On the train back home, I feel rejuvenated. Uplifted. My frustration with my elusive character from earlier has melted away. Walking home from the train station, I try to be present with my character.

I ask myself: what is it about this perspective that I’m interested in? Why does my story need it? Why did I start writing it in the first place? How can I let my character embody it?

When I get home, I sit down in the sofa with my laptop on my lap. I sit in the dark, and I write. I put my character right at the center of what makes this perspective interesting. Smackdab in there. I allow her to be wild and free there.

The clock pass midnight, then 1am. Words are rolling out of me. And they’re singing.

Sunday: inspired

Sunday morning, I wake up inspired. It’s funny how you don’t quite realise something has been missing until it comes back. This Sunday, I realise I’ve been missing inspiration.

Between recovering from being sick and the cold spell in April, weeks have drifted by. Spring hasn’t felt particularly spring-y.

And now, I wake up inspired.

My fiancé and I eat a late breakfast at the local café and when we’re back home, I turn on some music and remove everything from my desk. I clean it thoroughly. After a little searching, I find an old wooden box and organise pens, stickers, tarot cards and notebooks.

I get out hammer and nails and hang my corkboard and art calendar, that used to hang where I had my desk before. I make a pot of tea. I take photos.

Outside the window, small snowflakes drift slowly through the air. I pay them no mind.

I feel back, somehow.