The Right to Write: A New Myth for Our Times by Paul Fedorowicz When I was a teenager, my mother's father came to live with us for a short time. Well into his nineties, Gigi was mostly a low-maintenance grandfather. He spoke very little English, and his infrequent Ukrainian usually did not require a response from me. True, Gigi did like a shot of whiskey now and then ("now" more often than "then"), but his drinking was kept discreet and everyone viewed it as a small vice for one so old, somehow ignoring the fact that he was quite young when the vice began. Nonetheless, I kind of liked having Gigi around. It seemed like a family kind of thing to house one's grandparent, for even a short time, and, Lord knows, our family needed family kinds of things to compensate for its natural tendency toward estrangement. As I said, Gigi was mostly low maintenance — except at the dinner table. There, some of his more obstinate characteristics were made manifest. "Would you like some meat, Papa?" my mother would optimistically begin. "No, no. I don't need anything. I'll be fine," Gigi would predictably counter. His features looked wan, cast in shadows by the dingy yellowish light in the kitchen. Drawing a quick breath, my mother braced herself and tried again. "Come on, Papa. Have some meat. It's nice and soft. Like you like it." Closing his eyes, as if already made weary by the argument, my grandfather pressed his lips together defiantly, and slowly shook his head from side to side. Everyone knew that his behavior really meant, "I'm very hungry, and the food looks very good, but there's no way in hell I'm going to be compliant. You're all going to have to beg me, and nicely, before I eat a bite." My mom cajoled and wheedled, offering her meal repeatedly, met by more and more insistent head shaking. She knew that she must play the game or fail in her duties as daughter. Becoming angry was allowed, but quitting the game was forbidden. As an adolescent, I watched this spectacle impatiently, thinking, "Just leave him be. He'll eat when he gets good and hungry. You're just playing into his hand by begging him." However, I now realize that Gigi wasn't just obstinate. He truly needed permission from outside himself to be able to do what he most wanted. He needed someone to say it was okay to eat. To my great chagrin, I've come to understand that I have a "Gigi within." It is the part of me that writes, or, rather, the part of me that would write, the part of me that wants to write but can't consistently give itself permission to write. This part of me still often requires an outside impetus to set it in motion. Were it not for an imposed deadline, I likely would have continued to procrastinate writing this article. The deadline becomes a kind of permission to do what I actually really wanted to do, deep down inside, in the first place. Julia Cameron's newest book, The Right to Write, could, perhaps, better be titled The Permission to Write, for that is really what Cameron offers her reader. In the Table of Contents, Ms. Cameron breaks each chapter into two sections, which she calls "Invitation" and "Initiation." The Invitation is the necessary permission, and the Initiation is an exercise through which one can progressively, with each chapter, enter the experience of writing. In fact, an early chapter is titled, simply, "Let Yourself Write." "Eat, Papa." Nourish yourself. Take what you most surely want and need. Ms. Cameron speaks directly to my "Gigi within." It is my belief that, in each life, the gods intervene by providing mentors to guide us. In each of her three books on the creative process (The Artist's Way, The Vein of Gold, and, now, The Right to Write), Julia Cameron is more than just creative inspiration and muse. She is a creativity mentor, taking each reader on retreat within the pages of her book as a large maple might shield one who rests under its rustling leaves. The first Mentor, according to myth, was able to provide the young Telemachus what his own parents, Ulysses and Penelope, were unable to give — and that, only after the goddess Athena assumed the physical guise of Mentor, Ulysses' closest trusted friend. It is my belief that, in each life, the gods intervene by providing mentors to guide us. I further suspect that Athena has once again assumed human form as Julia Cameron, so wise and compassionate are the teachings in her books on the creative process. Cameron gives us the permission and encouragement to pursue our creative daimon in a way that our own parents were, for the most part, unable to do. In their roles as parents, our mothers and fathers were simply too invested in who we should be to truly see us for who we are. Ironically, through the distant medium of the written word, Cameron is able to speak to us deeply and direct us toward our truest selves. One could criticize The Right to Write by noting that much of the text and many of the exercises have been offered before in The Artist's Way and The Vein of Gold. However, to my mind, that would be like saying that the film The Ten Commandments is a lot like the Bible and needn't have been produced. A good story is a good story and needs to be told and retold, time and again. All good fairy tales and myths have been told countless times, gradually distilling toward a few basic golden nuggets of wisdom. In this way, Cameron has posited a new myth for our times, the myth of the creative child-self within. Actually, this is, already, a very old myth, which has previously taken form in Greek mythology as the ingenious trickster-child Hermes, to mention but one such image. More accurately, then, Cameron has resurrected an old myth and emphasized its relevance for our current lives. In fact, it is my experience that, in each of her books, Julia Cameron consistently addresses herself to two readers in every person: the creative child and the caring adult who would protect and nurture that child. For this reason, it would be most fitting for me to write two articles about The Right to Write. My child self would say, simply, "I like Julia's book. I think you should read it." My adult self, however, is much wordier, and needs to consider the pros and cons of every issue. Thus, I offer the following commendation and criticism. The Right to Write is written in short little digestible chapters. I love books with short chapters because I get to frequently have the illusory satisfaction of completion. I look at a short chapter and think, "I can manage that. I'm not overly committing myself by starting this now." Cameron invites us to read as she would have us write: a little bit at a time, accumulating pages slowly but surely if we do just a little bit each day. Brevity becomes a kind of permission. "Eat, Papa. Just take a bite." However, each of Ms. Cameron's aforementioned books is written so that after you read a little, no more than a chapter's length, you are asked to write in response or perform some other relevant project to more fully experience what has just been read. For some people, this approach works just fine, especially if they are reading the book in the context of a support group and have weekly deadlines to complete tasks and readings. However, for many people, especially those working alone, it is quite easy to get waylaid at these crossroads, becoming fixed on a particular assignment and unable to progress forward. It is for this reason that I recommend that readers allow themselves to continue reading and return later to tasks that are, for some reason, particularly daunting. Personally, though I loved the book and thoroughly enjoyed the exercises that I was completing as I worked along through it, I got stuck in chapter six. I was unable to progress until I gave myself permission to just read the book, returning at a later time to the unfinished exercises: permission to write, permission not to write; for me, a necessary paradox that has allowed me to write this article. Paul Fedorowicz, MA ([206] 328-6552) is a Jungian-oriented psychotherapist and Creativity Coach who facilitates support groups utilizing Julia Cameron’s books. With special interests in dreams, creative process, spiritual growth, and rites of passage, Paul works with individuals, couples, and groups at his private practice office in Seattle. He is also a certified yoga therapist and teacher, musician, and accordion teacher.