I'm delighted to read this after our earlier exchange. Your notes about Dostoevsky's illness make me wonder if writing might be one of those proximal triggers. That is, perhaps "Old Dost," as Michael Mohr calls him, was not merely simulating his own experiences of rapture in his characters -- maybe the writing ritual actually produced those spiritual experiences for him? I'm aware that I get a similar feeling of connection and renewal from writing that other people seem to get through prayer or meditation. What a sad, yet touching paradox that writing had a therapeutic impact on D's mental health, but also compounded his illness.
Thank you for this comment! Yesterday was a full day of two grocery stores and a trip to the mall with three teens so I could not respond right then, but I have had a day of thinking about this idea of writing as a proximal trigger for a spiritual epiphany. It is certainly intriguing and I would love to actually write a bit more about this because I begin my days with half an hour of prayer first and then an hour of writing before taking care of the kids. Since my morning rituals of prayer and writing are intertwined it is likely that I personally create a neurotheological opportunity. It would be interesting what a fMRI reading would tell about my brain state while I write. Much of my morning writing is what I consider unpublishable, unless it is poetry which I feel tends to be workable after a few months of consistent visitation. However, the morning writing is meant to be reflection, a recalibration of my ethics as I look back on my actions (and writing) of the previous days. I suppose my Substack posts are informed by this reflection, come to think of it. While I was on retreat, I explained to new friends that I thought of writing as the physical act of thinking. You often don't know what you really think until you are either forced to put it into writing or are compelled to teach it to others (which often still involves the act of writing *something* like a lesson plan). It is in the act of thinking that we often have to make decisions on what is important to convey, and in doing this we must know what to leave out and what is of negligible value to us and our audience. Knowing what we value is an essential part of knowing who we are, which is of course very philosophical and touches a bit of the soul (that is, if we believe in it). I'd be interested in hearing your thoughts as someone from an atheist approach since I am a devout Catholic whose disciplines are formed, sometimes directly but more often than not obliquely, through my faith.
It might take an essay to fully respond here: "I'd be interested in hearing your thoughts as someone from an atheist approach since I am a devout Catholic whose disciplines are formed, sometimes directly but more often than not obliquely, through my faith."
The short answer is that as someone raised Pentecostal, many of my disciplines or instincts are still shaped by that upbringing. As a result, my writing is more lyrical than rational, and I really am aiming for something like transport for my readers. I prefer the term "humanist" to "atheist," because I think nearly all of my former impulses to appeal to God are now impulses to appeal to people. I never experienced any sense of connection or solace through prayer, but I do feel those things through writing and through exchanges like this with readers.
That helps, yes. Thank you for the reply, and I am hoping to know (perhaps over time) about the experience of writing as it connects with one’s own “soul” or “person” rather than with others. Due to my background (unsafe, unstable in both mental and physical senses) human beings are less safe to me than my own soul and a bodiless, timeless God. I have control over one and no need to control the other. Connecting to others seems to be a great gift, but not necessarily a constant need. My compulsion to write to others stems from wanting to make sense of the world for others so they feel the safety I never had as a child.
I'm delighted to read this after our earlier exchange. Your notes about Dostoevsky's illness make me wonder if writing might be one of those proximal triggers. That is, perhaps "Old Dost," as Michael Mohr calls him, was not merely simulating his own experiences of rapture in his characters -- maybe the writing ritual actually produced those spiritual experiences for him? I'm aware that I get a similar feeling of connection and renewal from writing that other people seem to get through prayer or meditation. What a sad, yet touching paradox that writing had a therapeutic impact on D's mental health, but also compounded his illness.
Thank you for this comment! Yesterday was a full day of two grocery stores and a trip to the mall with three teens so I could not respond right then, but I have had a day of thinking about this idea of writing as a proximal trigger for a spiritual epiphany. It is certainly intriguing and I would love to actually write a bit more about this because I begin my days with half an hour of prayer first and then an hour of writing before taking care of the kids. Since my morning rituals of prayer and writing are intertwined it is likely that I personally create a neurotheological opportunity. It would be interesting what a fMRI reading would tell about my brain state while I write. Much of my morning writing is what I consider unpublishable, unless it is poetry which I feel tends to be workable after a few months of consistent visitation. However, the morning writing is meant to be reflection, a recalibration of my ethics as I look back on my actions (and writing) of the previous days. I suppose my Substack posts are informed by this reflection, come to think of it. While I was on retreat, I explained to new friends that I thought of writing as the physical act of thinking. You often don't know what you really think until you are either forced to put it into writing or are compelled to teach it to others (which often still involves the act of writing *something* like a lesson plan). It is in the act of thinking that we often have to make decisions on what is important to convey, and in doing this we must know what to leave out and what is of negligible value to us and our audience. Knowing what we value is an essential part of knowing who we are, which is of course very philosophical and touches a bit of the soul (that is, if we believe in it). I'd be interested in hearing your thoughts as someone from an atheist approach since I am a devout Catholic whose disciplines are formed, sometimes directly but more often than not obliquely, through my faith.
It might take an essay to fully respond here: "I'd be interested in hearing your thoughts as someone from an atheist approach since I am a devout Catholic whose disciplines are formed, sometimes directly but more often than not obliquely, through my faith."
The short answer is that as someone raised Pentecostal, many of my disciplines or instincts are still shaped by that upbringing. As a result, my writing is more lyrical than rational, and I really am aiming for something like transport for my readers. I prefer the term "humanist" to "atheist," because I think nearly all of my former impulses to appeal to God are now impulses to appeal to people. I never experienced any sense of connection or solace through prayer, but I do feel those things through writing and through exchanges like this with readers.
Does that help a bit? :)
That helps, yes. Thank you for the reply, and I am hoping to know (perhaps over time) about the experience of writing as it connects with one’s own “soul” or “person” rather than with others. Due to my background (unsafe, unstable in both mental and physical senses) human beings are less safe to me than my own soul and a bodiless, timeless God. I have control over one and no need to control the other. Connecting to others seems to be a great gift, but not necessarily a constant need. My compulsion to write to others stems from wanting to make sense of the world for others so they feel the safety I never had as a child.