The Analogy of the Archer
The Analogy of the Archer
Erika Veurink
I found myself on the edge of a wooded expanse of Northern Minnesota, lined up with a group of other eleven-year-old girls. Our parents had signed us up for the archery excursion at Christian summer camp. Targets were taped to hay bales in the distance. The first arrows I launched fell a few feet in front of me. A counselor leaned over my shoulder, “Your power has to come from pulling back.” Her advice didn’t lead to my mastery that day, but it has stuck with me ever since.
Creative life functions largely the same way. It helps me to identify three separate movements: retreat, aim, and imagine. Every artist has a phase they prefer over the others. I have some writer friends who can’t bear the weight of publication. The finality feels crushing. Others, like myself, would happily spend the rest of their lives in ideation. Think of the way retreating, aiming, and imagining form one, seamless arc of creation into manifestation. When the days are long or the project has lost its romantic gleam, it helps to identify one’s place in the analogy of the archer. Follow the prompts below based on where you’re at presently, or where you hope to land.
Retreat
“No one can help you if you’re stuck in a work. Only you can figure a way out, because only you see the work’s possibilities. In every work, there’s an inherent impossibility which you discover sooner or later some intrinsic reason why this will never be able to proceed. You can figure out ways around it. Often the way around it is to throw out, painfully, the one idea you started with.” – Annie Dillard, “Notes for Young Writers”
Early morning, somewhere just outside of the dream state, there is there is a smooth surface of a new day—welcome to retreat. This is the time to pull your arrow back into your trusted rituals. Honor your obsessions, even if only to release them at the altar of a better idea. Remind yourself that this is creation. There’s nothing precious about it. Even the Creation story started with dirt.
Retrace your steps: In a literal sense, what brought you to the work this morning? Make a map of your movement—describe the coffee, the quiet walk from your warm bed, the sounds. More abstractly, what are the projects/dreams/concepts that have led you to the front door of this work?
Consider the child self. What can you do without checking the clock? Spend time in this imaginative space. Take a walk with only your earliest concept to keep you company. Draw your dreams from the night before. Remember, Martin Buber said, “play is the exaltation of the possible.” Go gently.
Aim
“Aim at heaven and you will get earth thrown in. Aim at earth and you get neither.” – C. S. Lewis, Mere Christianity
Setting a course might be the least glamorous, most essential part of any artistic endeavor. It’s easy to get swept up in the start, but without proper aim, the center can feel impossible. This middle act can be where it’s hard to find inspiration. It can be hard to see how the toiling amounts to something sacred. Keep going. Every artist in every medium feels at least an ounce of this. Keeping an intentional aim will prevent you from relying on your emotions when the work feels insurmountable. Focus on your higher calling. Picture everything from a bird’s eye view, and then slowly descend. You’re making art, not running a race. Trust the hours.
Set a timer for 20 minutes. No distractions. Write without editing on a sheet of blank paper or an email draft to relieve the pressure of your work in context. Make a list of friends who support you. Make a list of friends whom you love, but can’t support you. Make a final list of artists you aspire to create alongside.
Imagine
“The function of art is to do more than tell it like it is – it’s to imagine what is possible.” – bell hooks, Outlaw Culture: Resisting Representations
Go further than you think you can. Push the edges of the piece until they push back. Then the work is ready for refinement. Cut, toss, tear, burn. You’re not finished until you know you are. It’s not about you, the artist. It’s about the work you’re bringing forth. Once it’s over, take time for reflection. Touch the indentation of where the arrow hit the target. Feel gratitude. Prepare yourself to begin again.
Write in the present tense about the highest life you could imagine for the work. Use specific details. Describe how it feels to have created something that lives beyond you. What would you create if you felt no responsibility?
Humble yourself. Read a book in a genre and author you aren’t familiar with. Support living artists. Remain creatively ambidextrous. It’ll keep you grounded. How can you become a beginner?
*
This year can hold a world of creative promise if you allow it to. If you are obsessed with journalling your way into the new year, we made this “Year in Prompts” for you–no resolutions, no promises, no sugarcoating, no right answer. Think of it as MadLibs for intention setting. Get your copy now:
2022–A Year in Prompts
Erika Veurink
Writer & MFA
Erika has been published in Brooklyn Review, Cheap Pop, Hobart & Midwest Review. Find her on Substack here: longlive.substack.com
Photography by Zach Camp