Kilter means “in good working order, aligned,” but I’ll bet you’ve never heard it without “off” or “out of” in front of it. We know when we’re off-kilter, when the world is out of kilter, but do we notice when the world is on-kilter, in kilter? Know your own kilter. Know what it feels like, not just in its absence. Appreciate your kilter, find your kilter, hit your kilter. The secret of the story maker is to keep your characters out of kilter and your own life simple, balanced and sane. Stir shit in your imagination, not in your kitchen. Wobble and careen and otherwise explore imbalance in the tales you invent or recall, but keep your writing habit, your practice, your routine of self-care and investigation steady. I am sitting in my local cafe. I come here because my unconscious knows that this place, this metal counter, these bent-necked lamps, these fellow typists, all mean: time to write. Time to dive in and work. Play. Explore. I shut out the conversation, the foot traffic, and in doing so, I shut out the mental conversation and foot traffic that loves to delay me, to demand my attention. I am a sucker for items I can check off my to do list, and “write a book” so rarely gets that check mark. So when I’m home, I’m off-kilter, looking for something that feels like doing. Writing doesn’t always feel like doing. It can feel like dreaming and daring; it can feel like just plain spacing out and getting nowhere. Sure, it helps to break it into small pieces–write for ten minutes, go; do a “pomodoro” session; write 1000 words, edit a scene–because those can be checked off. But you still have to sink into your dream state, give reign to the mystical, magical storyteller that the rest of your brain may not even believe in and certainly does not have faith in. You have to let it count, that inventing, exploring, wilderness training. You tell yourself: this is my kilter, this is the way all the little check marks add up to something that matters to me, something that counts in the grand scheme, not just something I can count.
This is part of “An Impractical Alphabet for Writers,” a series of pieces to encourage you. Previous entries are on my blog, as is “A Practical Alphabet for Writers.”