The Mental Traveler

I couldn’t stop.

It was just another Saturday. 2008. August. Hot. I was in nursing school bridging over from LPN to RN, and I was ready for the weekend. The night before I had taken a long walk, watching the sunset, and became inspired to write a fiction story. I felt the Holy Spirit ignite something in me. Within moments I had a heavenly download. I knew the entire story; had the outline. I felt it. I saw it. It was authentic. It was real. Brutally real. And it carried a message for the masses. I knew immediately this would not be your typical Christian sugarcoated fluff.

I had never written fiction before — not like this. In fact, the last time I had written a fiction story, I was nine years old. I had penned “Maple the Horse” with pen and ink into a handcrafted book made of looseleaf notebook paper and a construction tablet. That was far from what happened here.

I woke up around 8 am and still being in my jammies headed into the living room where my computer awaited me. I still remember the feeling of that Saturday morning. It was gloriously relaxed and inviting. I had absolutely nothing on my agenda. Nothing pending. Nothing in the way. I had nowhere to be. No one to see. And I had nothing to do.

I sat down. It was an old wooden desk with a hutch. I turned on the amber incandescent light. Opened my desktop. Orange juice in hand; I began to write. What happened next, I was in no way prepared to experience.

And I must tell you, before I was a writer — I was an artist. I still am.

The Threshold

It was an act of obedience.

Writer’s have what is commonly termed by psychologists as ‘a deep flow state’ which lies within the subconscious mind. It is a creative dream-like state of mind wherein authors are transported across the threshold of reality into their fiction, and begin to experience it vividly. Some authors call it a type of hypnosis. However, it is most commonly termed “the writer’s trance”. It is experienced among creatives worldwide who immerse themselves in their craft of writing. It is inspired. It cannot be wielded at will, and therefore is something often regarded as “divine”. This is not something uncommon or unordinary. On the contrary, it’s easily found in a vast array of writer’s blogs, articles, interviews, and many authors, both novice and prolific, talk about it publicly.

The story poured out of me. It took only about 30 minutes for the first 1000 words to be cranked out. I’ve talked about this phenomenon before: mostly with other writers and authors. What I’m about to describe is not unique to me. No. Hardly. We all get this way! Transported. We are able to cross the proverbial threshold of reality with strident ease. And if we’re not careful, we lose ground very quickly. The creative mind of a writer is absolute fun. If you think reading a book is enjoyable — try writing one. We get the best of both worlds. We know exactly what our readers experience because we were there first.

This was not my first time experiencing this type of transcendent reality, however. But it had been a long time. God knows this was different. It was assigned. I had reached a whole new level here. I distinctly felt His presence and anointing upon me. I was allowed to see. I knew the names of my characters and could clearly see their faces. I saw what they were wearing, heard their voices, and knew what color their eyes and hair would be. I knew how tall they were, and what kind of physical constitution each person had. I knew what kind of personality, temperament, and character they would bring to the story, how they would fit, what role they would play, and how each of them would relate to each other. They became real people with souls.

Living sentient beings.

And then there’s the scenery. I had crossed the threshold. I literally went on vacation. I first visited Ireland — not present day, but 1860. Then we set sail over the Atlantic and landed on Ellis Island. The Civil War took place. I then visited Virginia. Next it was Kentucky… the story continued to sprawl. Relationships formed. People loved, married, and aged. People lived and died. There were births, deaths, and many other hallmarks of a life fully lived.

Me?

My fingers were flying.

I was rapt.

Chapters went by… each one within 30 minutes — an hour, maybe?

My mind was alive. Bursting. The colors, sights, sounds, and emotions of everyone in the story were flooding through the portals of my soul in ways I cannot begin to describe. I was no longer in my living room. I was in Kentucky riding horses and watching a war unfold.

Full bladder. Warm orange juice. Jammies. Numb and cold hands. Transfixed. I had slipped from the threshold of reality in a very short time. It was as if a portal into another world had opened, and I entered into it — all of this because of the unlimited possibilities within the grasp of my own creative mind, liberated by the Holy Spirit.

I was there. I felt it. I experienced it. No one can tell me otherwise. I saw the waves of the ocean. I felt the green rippling grasses. I rode the stage coaches, clutched the horse’s mane, tripped the trigger of a gun, and much more.

This is the magic of being a creative mind; of being a writer.

Writing: This is a consumptive craft of another order. Absolute solitude. A pact with our imagination that can take us anywhere. Writers live on another plane of thought. We are able to take people places only because we are able to go there ourselves, first.

If you have ever wondered how an excellent work is crafted… we cross over. It’s the only way.

The Creative Mind

It is a gift. A gift from God. A gift for which I am most grateful and humbled to carry. I have always endeavored to savor and steward it well.

My greatest frustration in life are people who can’t do this. Poor souls. People who have no interest in reading. People who can’t imagine or “see” anything. It just gores me.

I wonder, how do they live like that???

They say things like, “I don’t like reading.” Or, “It’s just black and white words on a page.” These kinds of statements leave me dumbfounded. I genuinely feel sorry for them, and it’s a compassion only someone like myself could have.

Writers. Understand, I am not the only one who experiences this. I promise you. I’m not. Writers are an entirely different breed of people. We are creatives by nature. Our brains are wired differently. When I was a little girl I found this creative mind hard to control. By the time I was a teenager I was able to wield it at will. I’ve said it before — I could live out of my head if I wanted to — and the one pleasure greater than reading a good book is writing one.

Writers lose control. We do. We can slip from reality quite easily. We see something; hear something… suddenly we’re gone. We’re off to the races! And it’s so gorgeous! Within seconds, I can go wherever I want and just slip away… yep, that’s me. The lost look on my face; the dreamy gaze. Totally checked out.

Meryl Streep in Out of Africa called it, “the mental traveler”. Truer words were never spoken.

We all have this nagging problem of wanting to be somewhere else. Doing something else. Being with other people. Reality can be so boring. Mundane. It’s like Groundhog Day. Life can be so demanding and yet so self-limiting. This threshold is our escape route. We’d just rather live somewhere else, be with other people, cross the borders of time, do other things, go on some daring adventure. Sometimes that’s just not possible within the confines of our physical bodies or social circle, or our finances for that matter. So we go there mentally. We may stay awhile, but only because we genuinely enjoy the trip! We’ll be back.

Promise.

Writers get inspired. It happens upon a whim. We have absolutely no control over this whatsoever. It can hit us at the oddest of times — the most serious conversation (absolutely), in times of desperation, on the highway, in the shower, when we’re at work (gawd) — and we are trapped — I mean, completely arrested.  I’ve learned how to harness this glorious interruption: I simply need to write it down. At other times, I record it. My world is littered with pens, paper, and notes of various kinds. And very clipped recordings. Learning how to manage… well, it takes practice. I’m quite used to it now.

Writers. We all struggle with this whimsical flow. These creative surges of inspiration are quite powerful. The writers I’ve known have developed their own systems to harness, control, steward, and process their creative juices, lest they go bleeding and sprawling through life like a hemorrhage. If we don’t learn how to do this, we either lose this whimsical magic, or we lose ourselves. Maintaining that balance between reality and fantasy can sometimes be a very thin line. I know of authors who schedule their writing. Those I’ve spoken with personally get transported very easily, just like I do. The trip can often be so expensive that we lose all track of time; to the extent that we are utterly derailed. We’ve lost touch with reality. I remember being in the computer room in high school working on a novel for my creative writing class. I was seventeen. I was again, entirely rapt. Transported. The other students had said something to me and I didn’t even hear them. This must have endured a generous amount because it evidently became some sort of game. I was entirely oblivious to them. Finally, they made a loud sound causing me to jump. I turned and they erupted in the most raucous laughter. So, to be honest it’s quite hard for us to get back when we’re really having fun or enjoying our trip. We genuinely slip away. Everything around us just disappears. We are not rude. We are oblivious. We are not ignoring you. We don’t even hear you. Many of us have instituted schedules for our writing which help us stay grounded. We set an allotted time frame. We have rooms and entire destinations curated for our craft.

As for me? I have instituted something else…

The Butt Alarm

Twelve long sprawling chapters. Several hundred pages. 26 Hours.

I grew dizzy– That was the alarm that finally snapped me out of it. I suddenly found myself whisked away from Kentucky and the Civil War, and from the people I had grown to love. I do remember I lost my course of thought. It was absolutely dreadful.

The disorientation was rife.

I was strangely cold. Prickly sensations coursed through me. My hands ached. I turned my head and my neck was stiff. The dizziness grew yet worse. My head exploded with a sudden surge of blood coursing through my ears with a vengeance. I looked at the clock. Whaaaa…? The date had changed. It was after 10 am; almost 11 o’clock in the morning. Essentially an hour from noon.

It was a complete time-warp. The sun stung at my dim eyes. Only then did I realize what had happened to me.

I began to stand up. My hips creaked and my butt was dead. Asleep. Numb. Absent. My feet were freezing, and just a tinge too blue.

I stretched and it hurt. My eyes were glazed.

I had not had anything to drink or eat. I had not peed. I had not showered. I had. not. done. anything. 

But I had finally returned to reality. It was like coming back from a vacation. I remember not liking my present apartment dwelling. I had the most acute sense of dissatisfaction, entirely. It was nothing like the home on the Kentucky prairie. I missed the horses and the barn. I missed the rushing reeds of grass on the open prairie. I missed the people with whom I had shared my heart. I missed the laughing children, the apple trees, and the chickens.

I disliked my reality: The boring white-walled apartment in Topeka, Kansas. The silence. The concrete street. The noisy cars. The lack of beauty and intentional design. I found it reprehensible.

It was Sunday now. I got a glass of water and laid down, terrified I could have a clot. Thankfully, I did not.

I breathed. Finally, my blood was moving. I tried to understand my present world again and recalibrate reality.

It was hugely disappointing.

Honestly, it took a fair bit of time. I sighed. I stared at my ceiling. Cheap apartment popcorn. White. Flat. Boring. Zero imagination.

I was exhausted physically. But my mind remained exhilarated. I closed my eyes and allowed myself to feel what I had just experienced. My soul was satisfied. It was the most fun I’d had in years.

This was a tremendous gift from God, indeed.

I remember smiling to myself and just thinking, “Wow…”

The butt alarm is merely a reminder to move every 2 hours. Actually, I got the idea from nursing. Every patient’s bed has one. I figure I needed one, too, but for a very different reason. The alarms for our patients tell them not to get up. Mine commands me to move.

Conclusion

I have long held it to be true that there is no better company than a good book. Reading one is a wonderful pastime of great leisure. But writing one is a pleasure and delight that absolutely cannot be matched. I only wish everyone was gifted in this manner and that they could experience the wonders of a creative mind as writer’s like myself do. The ability to dream, cross that threshold of reality, and be transported into another place and time.

26 hours.

That was the christening of my fiction trilogy. It has demanded much. I hope you’ll love it as much as I do.

Coming soon. 2027.

Cheers & Shalom,

Image Credit: Felix-Mittermeier | Pixabay

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