Resistance is the name of the creativity game

How to outwit negative self talk

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I am in a war with a pernicious, invisible force called RESISTANCE, and SO ARE YOU.

Steven Pressfield, in his cult classic book, The War of Art calls this force “Resistance.”

I began dreading the life drawing class two days before it was scheduled. In spare moments, I’d think of excuses: “I could be sick. I do feel kind of headachey. I could plead a dentist appointment, maybe even try to get one, because that tooth really is sensitive. Also, I have a new book coming out; I have too much work to do to get ready for the launch.”

I didn’t do anything about these thoughts because I recognized them for what they were: that inevitable, invisible, mental and emotional opposition that comes up when you try any creative activity. Every artist in any form deals with this inertial force that tries to keep you from even beginning, let alone completing, any worthy endeavor.

Pressfield’s War book is a vital expose of this ongoing battle. His slim tome is written in small, dense nuggets, as if Pressfield had his hands full just discharging vital one-paragraph bullets that expose the battle.

“Resistance cannot be seen, touched, heard, or smelled. But it can be felt. We experience it as an energy field radiating from any work-in-potential. It’s a negative repelling force. Its aim is to shove us away, distract us, prevent us from doing our work.”

Because I’d read The War of Art, I knew that the creeping dread about the class was Resistance at work.

As a professional writer, I’ve had to deal with it virtually every day, and my personal favorite way to deal with Resistance is to outwit it.

Here’s how I do that:

I allowed the excuse-making, dread-filled thoughts. Smiled at them tolerantly, even. I refused to take any action on the thoughts, while telling myself, “I’ll call the dentist if I TRULY need to. I’ll decide the morning of class if I truly can’t make it.” I endured the mental battle without overtly resisting it. I watched the thoughts go by without engaging.

For me, Resistance is best won through a sort mental tai chi, interspersed with plain old stubbornness and a refusal to give up. (Also timers. But that’s a technique I won’t get into today.)

Thursday morning rolled around, and the Resistance was still terrible. So bad, that I sat outside watching the birdfeeder with my morning coffee, and probed my mind for a few minutes, much like tonguing my still-sore tooth: what is bothering me about drawing class?

Immediately, as if launched from a cannon, Resistance sent a reply: “You’re a shitty artist. Always have been. All those grandiose ideas about your talent when you were a kid were so ridiculous. You’ll never amount to anything in visual arts. Why don’t you stick with what you’re good at, writing? Show some dignity! You’re too old to master drawing. If you couldn’t do it when you were younger, what makes you imagine you can do it when you’re this OLD?”

The cruel, vituperative tone of Resistance is unmistakable and it pissed me off.

Resistance used to tell me shit like that when I was trying to get better at writing, too.

For thirty years I let it keep me down, sprinkled with excuses and distractions like marriage, work, and raising kids—but in spite of Resistance, I persevered in my writing until, at 50+ books, several of them bestsellers, I know I’m a good writer—no matter what Resistance continues to try to tells me.

And this particular Thursday morning, Resistance made a mistake: it got me mad, and I’m a fighter when I get mad.

And of course, as with all activities that elicit the most Resistance, this particular class marked a turning point.

Some interesting things happened to set that up: first, we had a male model, and this time I really started to understand how important the midpoint was. I worked hard to find it: and that midpoint was right in the middle of the model’s junk.

Staring at his penis repeatedly, shutting one eye and then using my pencil to measure, I encountered embarrassment and even some good old-fashioned prudery in my own head as I tentatively sketched “that area.” Even covered by a sort of g-string pouch, I wasn’t comfortable visually hanging out there.

Working out from the Squeamish Central groin area, I discovered I’d gotten slightly better at guesstimating the area of the figure. We worked with longer poses and tried to use the whole paper. I thought I was getting it, but then, the master came by and jotted on my pad: Mass, Angles, Distance, and Shapes. MADS.

“It’s all just MADS,” the master said to the class from beside me. “Mass. Angles. Distance. Shapes. What you are doing is taking 3-d reality and converting it to a 2-D flat surface. If you keep thinking in those terms, you’re processing what’s there. You’ve circumvented the brain’s attempt to define it. As I’ve told you, when you pre-define what you’re drawing, you stop seeing what’s really there.”

More nuggets of life wisdom disguised as art teaching.

But I wasn’t happy. Though my drawing was coming out better than my others had, the master didn’t write the acronym MADS on anyone else’s paper. He wrote it twice on mine, on two different renderings. Apparently, I needed to remember Mass, Angles, Distance and Shapes more than everyone else, and once wasn’t enough.

I’m like the Special Ed kid who gets extra help disguised as encouragement. In that sniping internal voice, I recognized Resistance returning to shame me.

I did a nimble and optimistic mental reframe: That’s right, I’m special! The master can see my talent and he’s determined to help me, even though I don’t yet believe in myself. He’s not being mean. He likes me and doesn’t want me to give up.

With this outflanking of Resistance, I actually begin to feel a little bit better about the master “picking on me” for the first time in ten or so hours of torturous class.

At the last break of the day, I went to talk to our model. Sitting on the stage, he’d engulfed himself in a matronly, fuzzy blue bathrobe. “Thanks for your hard work. You’re really good at staying still.” The man had done several forty-minute poses, all standing, his lean, dignified body a metaphor of discipline. “Is it challenging to be so quiet, and not have anything to do?”

His sternly ascetic face lit up when he smiled. “It’s hard but it’s a kind of meditation. I can’t daydream too much, or things start to shift.”

“The focus required, the lack of other stimulation, not to mention how difficult drawing is are all challenging. But for you, those things must be even more boring,” I said.

He shrugged. “I don’t mind.”

This friendly chat made me feel better about objectifying another human being into Mass, Angles, Distance and Shapes. When the bell sounded, to resume, I went back to my board.

“This is much better,” the master said at the end of class when he paused before my final attempt. He couldn’t resist adding a final MADS in the corner, as if signing my piece.

“Yep, you’re special,” Resistance snarled in my head. “Like, remedial-special.”

“Hard-won praise is the sweetest, and the master told me it was better. I’m going to believe him,” I countered, and smiled internally when Resistance had nothing more to say.

I won that round, but one thing I know about Resistance—that sinister voice would be back, and I’d have to outwit, outplay, and outlast it again.

Photo by visuals on Unsplash

Thanks so much for reading! Don’t forget to hit the ❤️, and I hope this helps YOU identify and combat the self critical inner monologue that tries to keep you stuck!

Add a comment and let me know your thoughts; comments are open to all because we ALL run into Resistance!