I have been thinking about the theme of embodiment a lot lately. In fact, it is something I have been working with over the last few years more and more, moving where possible, out of my head and into my body. I have learnt breathwork techniques, flowed to ecstatic dance beats, deepened my yoga and meditation practice and more. Because of this, I am far better at listening to what my body has to say. I recently injured my toe and I couldn’t walk for a couple of days. I knew my toe had something to teach me, so I listened and I learnt.
However, trying to be an embodied writer can sometimes feel like a totally alien concept. We are often cerebral by nature. Put any writer in a café without a phone or a computer and we will be off in our heads making up a story based on an overheard conversation. Watch writers write and you will see their eyes searching up to the deepest reaches of their brains to find ideas and thoughts tucked away for safe keeping. But, our thoughts, while providing some of the most beautiful stories ever told, can also be our downfall. They can stop us in our tracks, trip us up, tell us we are the world’s worst writers, make us edit the goodness out of our work when it was great all along.
There are many tricks we can use to sink out of our minds and into our bodies (including the ones mentioned above). A few deep belly breaths before starting writing or when the inner critic breaks into its incessant nattering can often be enough to move us away from our minds, at least temporarily. Also timing devices like Write or Die, which literally turn your screen an urgent red if you stop writing, keeping your writing as stream of consciousness and not allowing any time for the pesky “not good enough” thoughts to surface, can be a great help.
Recently though, I decided to take “embodied writing” further. I wanted my body to guide my writing, to tell the stories. So, one morning earlier this week, I set a timer for twenty minutes, took a deep breath and felt into what part of my body wanted to tell a story. My neck spoke up.
I had a rule though, my neck had to tell me a fictional story. This wasn’t about me writing about a pain in my neck and seeing what it had to say, like I mentioned earlier with my toe, this was about my neck making up a story.
I know this sounds quite odd, but bear with me.
What flowed onto the page was a visceral, poignant story about a young man holding far too much for his age. His character was rounded and believable, he was sweet and in emotional pain. It was like nothing I had been thinking about writing, like nothing I normally write. Turns out, as weird as it sounds, my neck was a great storyteller. And at no point did my mind intervene to tell my neck that it wasn’t a very good writer, the story just flowed.
This morning, it was the turn of my left shoulder. This time a nostalgic story about a grandmother a gramophone and video tapes…
I am still new to this idea and still playing with it and I am not sure how it works, but it does. I do believe that our body holds stories for generations and it turns out they seem to want to tell them. And, in the art of learning together, I thought I would share. Have any of you tried this or something similar? I would love to hear your stories. I wonder what part of my body will want to tell a story tomorrow? I wonder what story my right ear has to tell?
Mentoring
I delight in mentoring writers. There is something truly special about watching the writers I work with grow in confidence, rebuild their writing muscles and quieten that inner voice that tells them they can’t write.
The other day after a mentoring session, I received this beautiful message from my client:
“Thank you, dear Susannah, for looping me back into the magic and emotion and big questions of this story. See you next week.”
Writing is magic and I truly believe that in writing we are trying to answers the questions we have about life on the page. I am so grateful when I can be a conduit in guiding my clients back to their inner storyteller.
If you would like support with your writing, please get in touch or book in for a free twenty minute consultation, to see if I am the right person to help you.
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I love the idea that different parts of our bodies hold memories of previous generations, its a little like the idea of ancestral trauma held within our auras. What a brilliant way to let it out.
Starting the new year in the spring makes so much sense. In January I want to curl up and read. By March I’m ready, physically and mentally, to shift gears. Just the thought of adjusting my calendar gives me a sense of relief, which is pretty telling. Thank you for this! ❤️