On Writing to Find Out and Other Ways We Reorient Ourselves

Lessons from Flannery O'Connor, C.S. Lewis, and the Night Sky

“I write because I don’t know what I think until I read what I say.”

FLANNERY O’CONNOR

I.

I don’t know why I keep thinking about it, but I am writing to find out…

This is the thought that drives me to the page today. And I will share that thought in a moment.

But first, a thought about writing (because I think the interiors are loosely related to where I might land):

Sometimes, I notice a throughline in things that perplex me, and I write to process those connections. And sometimes, a memory resurfaces at a significant or particular time, and I write to learn why. And sometimes, writing is a way to push back the darkness if you can manage to pick up the pen.

This urge of the writer reminds me of what Flannery O’Connor once wrote: “I write because I don’t know what I think until I read what I say.”

Her words are so much like what I was trying to process: “I write not because I know, but because I need to find out...”

For me, writing is equal parts survival, curiosity, and beautification. And, if I am being honest, I think those attributes encompass the human experience, too. It’s why, for us creative types, writing is indelibly linked to our ability to thrive. For many writers, if we aren’t writing—in some ways—we are dying. And, yes, there is some science to this¹.

And if I am being really honest, when the writing stops, I always know I am in trouble. My darkest times have always coincided with my dryest times as a creative.

Where my mind and body have been over the past months have squeezed me dry, so my writing hasn’t exactly been exquisite for you, “But, at least,” I tell myself, “I am here… and I am willing to write to find out…”

So, dear reader, please see this post as an act of defiance—or might I say, a “reorientation.”

I hope it at least makes a little sense to one of you.

Photo by Patrick Fore on Unsplash

II.

I don’t know why I keep thinking about it, but I am writing to find out…

It’s a scene from about five years ago, right before I got really ill.

I was the English Department Head at the school I worked at for nearly a decade, and I was in charge of a Creative Arts Retreat for students every January. Each year, I would take them around the Tampa Bay Area to different parks and museums, so they could learn about nature and art and make their own art (writing, photography, painting, etc.) in response to what they experienced. Julia Cameron refers to this practice as “filling the artist’s well” in her bestseller, The Artist’s Way, which I most highly recommend to you².

The Salvador Dali Museum in Saint Petersburg, FL

A student favorite (and my own) was always the Salvador Dali Museum in Saint Petersburg, Florida. The students loved the museum, particularly Dali’s Lincoln in Dalivision and Hallucinogenic Toreador (see below), but year after year, they always found themselves in the gardens out back, where there was a large maze curated by shrubs some fifteen feet high for museum guests to explore.

Dali’s Lincoln Dalivision

Dali’s Hallucinogenic Toreador

One after another, all twenty or so students would disappear into the maze, not to be seen for quite some time. I always enjoyed listening to their laughter and shouts as they got lost a dozen times before they’d find their way and pop out the other end.

Most years, I would sit on the bench and watch them have their fun, as they burned off the youthful energy they suppressed in the quiet museum.

But this particular year (which I didn’t know would be my last because of my health), I was drawn to join them.

“Come on, Mrs. Phinney!” They’d cried, “Do it!”

And, so, I did.

Quickly enough, I found myself lost. The tall, sculpted shrubs rose high enough so I couldn’t see anyone or anything—except the sky.

Except the sky.

I could hear the world around me. I could feel my students’ feet shuffling here and there, not too far ahead—but I was alone.

But I was alone.