by Kimberly J. Brown
As writers, how do we achieve a breakthrough? Is it possible to surprise and delight ourselves with what we write? Yes, but the question is how. We can sit at a desk and write, but how can we access the uninhibited images lurking beneath our consciousness?
For me, it’s writing in the dark. In the liminal state.
The liminal state is that transitional state of consciousness that’s half awake, half asleep. The name comes from the Latin word limen, meaning threshold.
I recently spent a protracted hour at the Minnesota Department of Motor Vehicles. If you want to make time stop, spend some of it at the DMV. But I digress. I waited for my number and listened to a digitized voice call people in order. “Now serving A217 at counter 12.” Surrounded by dazed adults sitting in rows, I watched a little girl mosey toward a tot-sized Lego table. She plopped into a miniature chair and gleefully began yanking apart Lego pieces. She stacked red, blue, and yellow blocks until they grew into a lanky column. When it was her mother’s turn at the counter, the girl ran off. On her heels, a little boy swooped into position. He scanned the table, sizing up the blocks. Then he began piecing them together in a design of his own creation.
When that boy ran off, I said to my 40-year-old wife, “I dare you to go play at that table.” We laughed at the absurdity of the idea. But this is the point.
Adults have a challenge: how do we find ways to play? We must use trickery to get ourselves there. And that’s where the liminal state matters to me. The liminal state offers that child’s eye, that murky vision and innocent impetus like those kids at the DMV had—to create undeterred, despite being in public, surrounded by stodgy adults. It’s this state that allows our five-year-old selves to come out and play.
While the reclined position might not seem conducive to an ideal mental awareness from which to write, history is full of famous authors who preferred to write lying down: Mark Twain, Truman Capote, Edith Wharton, and William Styron, for example. Like them, I do some of my bravest and most surprising and insightful work when I’m half asleep.
In REM sleep (rapid eye movement), our bodies experience arousal and increased heart rate, but our muscle tone is flat. We’re functionally paralyzed. In an episode of Nova, researchers asked why nature would go to such lengths to let us dream safely. According to Harvard researchers John Hobson and Robert McCarley, we dream during both REM and non-REM sleep. We dream in cycles, four to five times per night, whether we remember our dreams or not. Creativity is putting together disparate ideas in new ways. REM helps with creativity because it’s a very active time in the brain when we free‑associate.
The frequency of our dreams bodes well for a writer’s chances that, with practice, she might access the liminal state.
I discovered this quite accidentally. During the middle of the night, jarred from dreams, claw fisted and groggy, I had tried to fall back asleep and realized my mind was full of detail—on a level that wasn’t necessarily available to me during wakefulness. I grabbed a pen and notepad from the nightstand, and lying on my side in the dark, I scribbled notes.
Over time, I’ve learned it’s vital that I do these things:
- Don’t turn on the light.
- Try to stay partially asleep.
- Write the words—right then, eyes clamped closed.
- In the morning, type up last night’s notes while the images are fresh.
Here’s a sample from one of my recent dreams. My notepad of choice is the Mead 3″ x 5″ with the spiral on top. It’s compact and fits my palm, which mentally I know the boundaries of, so I can scrawl by instinct.
I haven’t always collected details and generated writing this way. Developing my awareness enough to capture my dreams’ texture has taken practice. It started with small steps. For example, I noticed a post in Poets & Writers by the author Mary Jo Bang. She said she carries a notepad everywhere. It can start with something trivial: overheard conversations, being somewhere hot, cold, or rainy, or eating a favorite food. Just have paper with you, everywhere you go, even in your own home.
In addition to the notepad on my nightstand, I keep them in my office, on the coffee table, in my car, and in my backpack. Part of the trick is being ready with the tools and materials when my mind is ready. Now if I could only rig a waterproof notepad for the shower.
In the liminal state, I don’t question. Left brain slumbers. Right brain plays. Who knows what itches to be seen in the light of day? Dreams hold secrets and gifts that have the potential to change the world. Sound dramatic? It is. Created from dreams: two Nobel Prizes, new drugs, art, novels, and films. For example, it’s rumored that Mary Shelley’s Frankenstein was the result of an unconscious breakthrough.
Back at the DMV, the voice called, “Now serving B119 at counter 7.” We jumped to our feet, glad the interminable wait was over. We took care of our grown-up affairs.
We may not be little kids anymore, able to slide into play at a moment’s notice, but here’s my encouragement: take the inspiration when it comes. Maybe the liminal state can work for you. Why shouldn’t your dreams be fodder for the world’s next artistic masterpiece?
Exercise: Take a nap. That’s right! Take a nap. Make sure you have a small notepad and pen nearby. Does your mind wander? Where does it take you? What do you see? What do you smell, taste, hear, feel? Jot the words in a groggy half-asleep state. See what happens.
Maybe you’re skeptical. Maybe you’re thinking, “Sounds interesting. But I don’t know how to turn my gibberish dreams into anything more.” Remember, it takes practice. Here’s how those scraps of notepaper—written during the liminal state—turned out after I typed them up, fully conscious.
Writing in the Dark by Kimberly J. Brown
“We were in that old room. The big basement room. 70’s colors—red, orange, mustard. Wood paneled walls. Pictures we’d begun packing. Empty frames and pet leashes hung on the wall—a husk of its former glory.
The feeling is always strange in these dreams. They’re the earliest days. Mom is there again like she’d never been gone. We face the open room, the walls blank in spots. I try to remember a time we weren’t all here. I can’t. I try to remember before my little brother was here, but I can’t remember that either. He has always sat on her lap, listening to her direct us. ‘Put that bridle in this box, those pictures in another.’
Later, I sit in Dad’s mustard-colored chair. From the Vikings helmet lamp, a pallid light grazes my head like a gossamer dew. I finger the rolled seam on the arm rest. It has slid down and so I slide it back. The rolled seams are knobby and satisfying to touch. I try to pluck them like feathers but the seam remains rigid like a street curb. The pile is pilling like a sweater and I worry the bits of fluff between my fingers. This is the last time we’ll be here. Soon we’ll leave and everything will change.”
Resources
The Best Damn Creative Writing Blog, November 2, 2010. “Write Like a Pro.” Retrieved from bestdamncreativewritingblog.com/2010/11/02/write-like-a-pro
Kate Morgenroth. Retrieved from www.katemorgenroth.com/for_writers/work_habits.html
Poets & Writers, November 24, 2009. “Writers Recommend.” Retrieved from www.pw.org/content/mary_jo_bang
Writers Digest, November 12, 2009. “Sitting, Standing, Lying Down . . . How Do You Write?” Retrieved from blog.writersdigest.com/mfaconfidential/Sitting+Standing+Lying+DownHow+Do+You+Write.aspx
Kimberly J. Brown was a 2010–11 Loft Mentor Series winner in creative nonfiction. Her work has been published in What Have You Lost? (Nye, 2001) and Seeds from a Silent Tree: An Anthology by Korean Adoptees (Rankin, 1997), and has earned honorable mention in the Angel Animals essay contest (2009). She has been a reader in the Queer Voices reading series, Between reading series, Metro State Poetry Slam, and the Loft’s Literary Love Fest. In 2008 and 2007, she was a featured speaker for Minnesota 2020’s Infrastructure Press Conference and Carlson’s United Way Campaign. As a survivor of the 2007 I-35W Mississippi River bridge collapse, she has written advocacy pieces that appeared in publications such as the Star Tribune, Twin Cities Daily Planet, and Minnesota 2020. A University of Minnesota graduate, Kimberly currently works as a technical writer. www.kjbrown.com
Using the Liminal State to Surprise and Delight (Yourself)
Kimberly J. Brown
As writers, how do we achieve a breakthrough? Is it possible to surprise and delight ourselves with what we write? Yes, but the question is how. We can sit at a desk and write, but how can we access the uninhibited images lurking beneath our consciousness?
For me, it’s writing in the dark. In the liminal state.
The liminal state is that transitional state of consciousness that’s half awake, half asleep. The name comes from the Latin word limen, meaning threshold.
I recently spent a protracted hour at the Minnesota Department of Motor Vehicles. If you want to make time stop, spend some of it at the DMV. But I digress. I waited for my number and listened to a digitized voice call people in order. “Now serving A217 at counter 12.” Surrounded by dazed adults sitting in rows, I watched a little girl mosey toward a tot-sized Lego table. She plopped into a miniature chair and gleefully began yanking apart Lego pieces. She stacked red, blue, and yellow blocks until they grew into a lanky column. When it was her mother’s turn at the counter, the girl ran off. On her heels, a little boy swooped into position. He scanned the table, sizing up the blocks. Then he began piecing them together in a design of his own creation.
When that boy ran off, I said to my 40-year-old wife, “I dare you to go play at that table.” We laughed at the absurdity of the idea. But this is the point.
Adults have a challenge: how do we find ways to play? We must use trickery to get ourselves there. And that’s where the liminal state matters to me. The liminal state offers that child’s eye, that murky vision and innocent impetus like those kids at the DMV had—to create undeterred, despite being in public, surrounded by stodgy adults. It’s this state that allows our five-year-old selves to come out and play.
While the reclined position might not seem conducive to an ideal mental awareness from which to write, history is full of famous authors who preferred to write lying down: Mark Twain, Truman Capote, Edith Wharton, and William Styron, for example. Like them, I do some of my bravest and most surprising and insightful work when I’m half asleep.
In REM sleep (rapid eye movement), our bodies experience arousal and increased heart rate, but our muscle tone is flat. We’re functionally paralyzed. In an episode of Nova, researchers asked why nature would go to such lengths to let us dream safely. According to Harvard researchers John Hobson and Robert McCarley, we dream during both REM and non-REM sleep. We dream in cycles, four to five times per night, whether we remember our dreams or not. Creativity is putting together disparate ideas in new ways. REM helps with creativity because it’s a very active time in the brain when we free‑associate.
The frequency of our dreams bodes well for a writer’s chances that, with practice, she might access the liminal state.
I discovered this quite accidentally. During the middle of the night, jarred from dreams, claw fisted and groggy, I had tried to fall back asleep and realized my mind was full of detail—on a level that wasn’t necessarily available to me during wakefulness. I grabbed a pen and notepad from the nightstand, and lying on my side in the dark, I scribbled notes.
Over time, I’ve learned it’s vital that I do these things:
- Don’t turn on the light.
- Try to stay partially asleep.
- Write the words—right then, eyes clamped closed.
- In the morning, type up last night’s notes while the images are fresh.
Here’s a sample from one of my recent dreams. My notepad of choice is the Mead 3″ x 5″ with the spiral on top. It’s compact and fits my palm, which mentally I know the boundaries of, so I can scrawl by instinct.
I haven’t always collected details and generated writing this way. Developing my awareness enough to capture my dreams’ texture has taken practice. It started with small steps. For example, I noticed a post in Poets & Writers by the author Mary Jo Bang. She said she carries a notepad everywhere. It can start with something small: overheard conversations, being somewhere hot, cold, or rainy, or eating a favorite food. Just have paper with you, everywhere you go, even in your own home.
In addition to the notepad on my nightstand, I keep them in my office, on the coffee table, in my car, and in my backpack. Part of the trick is being ready with the tools and materials when my mind is ready. Now if I could only rig a waterproof notepad for the shower.
In the liminal state, I don’t question. Left brain slumbers. Right brain plays. Who knows what itches to be seen in the light of day? Dreams hold secrets and gifts that have the potential to change the world. Sound dramatic? It is. Created from dreams: two Nobel Prizes, new drugs, art, novels, and films. For example, it’s rumored that Mary Shelley’s Frankenstein was the result of an unconscious breakthrough.
Back at the DMV, the voice called, “Now serving B119 at counter 7.” We jumped to our feet, glad the interminable wait was over. We took care of our grown-up affairs.
We may not be little kids anymore, able to slide into play at a moment’s notice, but here’s my encouragement: take the inspiration when it comes. Maybe the liminal state can work for you. Why shouldn’t your dreams be fodder for the world’s next artistic masterpiece?
Exercise: Take a nap. That’s right! Take a nap. Make sure you have a small notepad and pen nearby. Does your mind wander? Where does it take you? What do you see? What do you smell, taste, hear, feel? Jot the words in a groggy half-asleep state. See what happens.
Maybe you’re skeptical. Maybe you’re thinking, “Sounds interesting. But I don’t know how to turn my jibberish dreams into anything more.” Remember, it takes practice. Here’s how those scraps of notepaper—written during the liminal state—turned out after I woke and typed them up, fully conscious.
Writing in the Dark by Kimberly J. Brown
“We were in that old room. The big basement room. 70’s colors—red, orange, mustard. Wood paneled walls. Pictures we’d begun packing. Empty frames and pet leashes hung on the wall—a husk of its former glory.
The feeling is always strange in these dreams. They’re the earliest days. Mom is there again and it’s like she had never been gone. We face the open room, the walls blank in spots. I try to remember a time we weren’t all here. I can’t. I try to remember before my little brother was here, but I can’t remember that either. He has always sat on her lap, listening to her direct us. ‘Put that bridle in this box, those pictures in another.’
Later, I sit in Dad’s mustard-colored chair. From the Vikings helmet lamp, a pallid light grazes my head like a gossamer dew. I finger the rolled seam on the arm rest. It has slid down and so I slide it back. The rolled seams are knobby and satisfying to touch. I try to pluck them like feathers but the seam stays rigid like a street curb. The pile is pilling like a sweater and I worry the bits of fluff between my fingers. This is the last time we’ll be here. Soon we’ll leave for the last time and everything will change.”
Resources
The Best Damn Creative Writing Blog, November 2, 2010. “Write Like a Pro.” Retrieved from bestdamncreativewritingblog.com/2010/11/02/write-like-a-pro
Kate Morgenroth. Retrieved from www.katemorgenroth.com/for_writers/work_habits.html
Poets & Writers, November 24, 2009. “Writers Recommend.” Retrieved from www.pw.org/content/mary_jo_bang
Writers Digest, November 12, 2009. “Sitting, Standing, Lying Down . . . How Do You Write?” Retrieved from blog.writersdigest.com/mfaconfidential/Sitting+Standing+Lying+DownHow+Do+You+Write.aspx
Kimberly J. Brown was a 2010–11 Loft Mentor Series winner in creative nonfiction. Her work has been published in What Have You Lost? (Nye, 2001) and Seeds from a Silent Tree: An Anthology by Korean Adoptees (Rankin, 1997), and has earned honorable mention in the Angel Animals essay contest (2009). She has been a reader in the Queer Voices reading series, Between reading series, Metro State Poetry Slam, and the Loft’s Literary Love Fest. In 2008 and 2007, she was a featured speaker for Minnesota 2020’s Infrastructure Press Conference and Carlson’s United Way Campaign. As a survivor of the 2007 I-35W Mississippi River bridge collapse, she has written advocacy pieces that appeared in publications such as the Star Tribune, Twin Cities Daily Planet, and Minnesota 2020. A University of Minnesota graduate, Kimberly currently works as a technical writer. www.kjbrown.com
