I started studying the teachings of Ram Dass a couple of years ago when I saw the amazing documentary Fierce Grace on Netflix, but somehow I never got around to reading the book he’s probably the most well-known for until this year. Be Here Now is part autobiography, part reference material, and part huge long scroll filled with poetry, thoughts, mythology, crazy illustrations and beautiful truths that help you wake up and love your cup-runneth-over life. I liked it so much I send copies to friends and recommend it to strangers.
I used to dread winter coming. I grew up in Michigan, a very cold and snowy place during the winter. So when the days started getting shorter in the fall I knew subzero temperatures and life-threatening patches of black ice were on the way. Then I moved to California and I didn’t have to fear the snow and ice anymore. But my dread of winter stayed with me. There was just something about it getting dark so early in the afternoon that depressed me. I felt this need to withdraw and retreat until spring showed up again.
I also noticed that my writing output seemed to suffer during the end of December, but I blamed it on the holiday madness that erupts every year. I was too busy to think straight, much less push through those difficult last few chapters of my novel.
Today’s Guest Post is from Michaela Chung of Introvert Spring. Thanks so much for contributing Michaela!
As the rarest personality type in the world, INFJs often seem strange to those around them. Rather than fight the stereotype, I thought I’d work with it by sharing some unusual writing advice that only the most gloriously peculiar personalities will appreciate.
Not only are these writing rituals odd, they are also surprisingly effective. Designed with the idiosyncrasies of the INFJ in mind, each tip works with INFJ quirks instead of against them. Read on to discover 4 strange rituals to bust through writer’s block as an INFJ.
A couple of years ago I was working on a novel and having the hardest time with the main character. I felt him so strongly, but he wouldn’t talk to me. I could see him clear as day. I knew what kind of music he loved, the exact shade of his green eyes, the way he obsessively rolled his socks. But all I had were those types of details, the ones that could be gleaned through pure observation. He wouldn’t voluntarily share anything else with me—not his past, not his current motivations, and sure as hell not his plans for the future.