The Creative Common Life We Crave—Timothy Jones

by Timothy Jones

A soul which remains alone . . . is like a burning coal which is left by itself: It will grow colder rather than hotter. —John of the Cross

I don’t often reread books, but I’ve been drawn back lately to The Lord of the Rings, struck by something I can’t stop thinking of, something I just learned, a detail that leaves me quietly amazed: how J. R. R. Tolkien’s magnum opus almost passed into obscurity. The whole literary phenomenon—multiple editions, discovery by the 1960s counterculture, the blockbuster movies in the 2000s, Tolkien becoming a household name—might never have happened?

It was The Mythmakers, John Hendrix’s graphic novel about C. S. Lewis and Tolkien, that unearthed the revelation for me. Lewis had an indispensable role, it turns out. And while I make my way through Tolkien’s masterpiece again, I keep thinking about cultivating community—connecting with others who share a calling. I see again that I can’t flourish without what they might bring. My writer friend Kate Gaston put it well when she said that placing our creative work out in the world is “an inherently vulnerable act.” So when I recently helped form a writers group to meet for support and someone suggested “Polite Society” as the name of our gathering, I chuckled, recognizing that what we needed was not heavy-handed critique but nurturing and support. Tolkien, apparently, felt that too.

I already knew about the Inklings, the renowned Oxford-based writing group—but I didn’t realize how crucial Lewis’s encouragement was. Lewis gently pushed when Tolkien hesitated and wondered if his story was fodder only for family and friends. In doing so, Lewis changed everything.

Tolkien, whom Hendrix describes as “an onion skin of self-conscious perfectionism” needed, well, a fan. There were tensions in their friendship, to be sure, in part arising from their differing literary visions. But Tolkien would write in a letter to a friend, “Only from [Lewis] did I ever get the idea that my ‘stuff’ could be more than a private hobby.” Tolkien the Oxford professor had already been published, to be sure, yet, he went on, “but for [my friend’s] interest and unceasing eagerness for more I should never have brought The L. Of the R. to a conclusion.”

What strikes me now, as I journey once more through the pages of The Lord of the Rings, is that it’s a story anchored by friendship—a bond that gives it lasting power and a place in literary history. Imagine if vast chunks of Middle-earth had stayed just notes in a drawer. What if Lewis hadn’t been there, and been so forthcoming? I see here a theme I’ve chewed on for years: that friends support us, change us, make us able for more than we might hope. In all kinds of ways, but especially in creative pursuits, how much I need what companions can bring.

I need others for support, for one thing.

There’s more joy when I’m not gutting it out alone. Living is no do-it-yourself project. Neither are our creative pursuits.

Writing is one of the most joyful things I’ve ever done. And the most stomach-churning. We writers delight in a turn of phrase that comes down and comes round. But then I obsess, once words rest on the page, especially when sent off, shipped into the world, to use Seth Godin’s phrase. I yearn to get my discoveries out into the world. But was I too much? Did my self-revelation make a reader feel put off or awkward? Once, a neighbor in the middle of reading one of my books scratched his head as we stood in his yard. I had been writing about everyday spirituality and got frank about some painful family dynamics. “I asked myself,” he said, mentioning a section he’d just read, ‘Should I be reading this?’” Like, TMI.

And so I expend more emotional energy than I should, wondering, worrying about my writing. Or there’s putting our article or book proposals out there, working and working and then waiting. Not hearing back. Finding what someone has called the glacial pace of publishing. What do you do when you’ve done all you can and have to sit back for a while? And then, what do you do when the (inevitable) rejection notes come?

Or there’s showing our sketches or graphic or painting to someone, playing in public a song we wrote, doing pretty much anything in which we invest ourselves. But then, does anything important happen without risks? I may forget that until a writer friend helps me, reassures me that creative ventures have their scary moments.

For our courage may fail. We may falter in our resolve. We make rationales to keep us from anything but our life-giving creative pursuits. We procrastinate in the name of dust bunnies in the living room, another glance at our email, or a fresh round of doomscrolling—anything to distract us from the work we should be doing. So we need accountability. We are wired to need others and their help.

Studies show how wellness—physical and emotional—is tied to strong and healthy connections with others. This interwovenness with others can range wide. It might mean work associates or fellow playdate parents, even the local barista. Whatever the setting, it means having people with whom we can share of our lives and of our selves. “The point,” stresses Arthur C. Brooks in From Strength to Strength, noting the corrosive physical and psychological effects of loneliness, “is having people with whom you grow together, whom you can count on, no matter what comes your way.” But our cultural trend toward isolation gets worse. In 2013, one out of four reported eating all their meals alone. In just a decade, that number has jumped to over half. Observers comment more and more about Americans’ trending toward (Brooks again, citing research) “no participation in social groups, fewer friends, and strained relationships” at the root. Technology may promise to increase our instant connectivity, but it also drives us into smaller and smaller silos of wariness or retreat. Like the guy in a New Yorker cartoon who says, over drinks to the guy next to him, “I used to call people, then I got into emailing, then texting, and now I just ignore everyone.”

“There was a man all alone,” we read in Ecclesiastes, who asked,

“why am I depriving myself of enjoyment?” . . .        Two are better than one. . . .            If either of them falls down,            one can help the other up. . . .        Also, if two lie down together, they will keep warm.        But how can one keep warm alone?            Though one may be overpowered,                 two can defend themselves. A cord of three strands is not quickly broken. (Eccles. 4, passim)

There’s more, too, than keeping warm. The sense of well-being we get from hanging out with another makes us stronger.

We need others for their empowerment, too.

At stake is not just how we feel when we navigate the challenges of creating—there are things we’ll do that we wouldn’t otherwise, things that might not happen without the synergy from others getting into the mix of our work and goals and dreams. I know the iconic image of the solitary artist, suffering in lonely silence for her art, finding inspiration from a bottle of single malt scotch.

But then there’s a better counter-narrative: how creativity thrives in collaboration. Maybe we are about to give up, but a friend says, “No you don’t! Keep at it.” Or someone likes what we’re attempting but has an angle that makes what we’ve done that much better. We apprentice ourselves, to use an older (still-valuable) word. We need folks to text, talk to, meet with, pray with. We create best when fed by what happens in networks, little or big groups, informal gatherings with others who care about art and literature and creativity. We get not only pumped but also changed. Made able to do something that we’d otherwise stumble over. A spark of insight or the just-right turn of lyric or a (literal) perspective on our painting somehow shows up.

Not long ago, I read something leadership guru Seth Godin wrote in The Practice about what he calls “cohorts.” By which he means often-little-at-first gatherings:

The stories of amazing cultural institutions (Julliard, Black Mountain College, the Blue Note, The Actors Studio, etc.) imply that something secret and magical was taught or experienced inside of these hallowed buildings. What probably happened was a cohort. . . .

What probably happened, he goes on, was people, (to use an inelegant word) clumping together in some shared calling or longing. Like, Godin goes on, this little singer-songwriter barely anybody’s ever heard of—Bob Dylan. Dylan “moved from Minnesota to Greenwich Village for a reason.” There’s more: “Most of the famous painters of the Renaissance came to Florence for a reason as well. When you're surrounded by respected peers, it's more likely you'll do the work you set out to do. Find this cohort.” Something, sometimes, only happens in a group. In the presence of another.

Once, while confiding in a soul friend and fellow pastor about my insecurities around speaking, he pointed me toward prayer. Yes, such feelings are, ultimately and at root, spiritual. But then he said, getting more practical, “Sometimes God heals us 100 percent. But then, at other times, he only heals us 80 percent, and gives us friends for the rest.” The healing help that God is eager to bestow may be embodied in flesh and blood, in the humane kindness of another. Friends or fellow creatives may be the very thing that, like Tolkien dealing with his own “onion-skin” sensitivity, gives us just what we need to move through and do.

It's more than the sum of the parts.

I was recently part of a Zoom gathering with Seth Godin, and I asked him about his dictum. “Find a cohort,” a group of like-minded folks. How have you seen it in practice? I asked him. “Look for a scene,” Seth said. “Look where things are [already] happening to create new culture and community and value.” And then, he said, embed yourself. A scene! What a great image. Find a scene (or make one), he said, and you will be not only encouraged or charged up, but changed by the synergy of people and ideas and insights.

Jesus, of course, promises to be present whenever two or three gather. Sometimes the Spirit himself moves gently, behind and within a scene. Other times, more visibly, like in this analogy: “I play in a symphony orchestra,” one internet friend of mine writes. “There are times when the entire group of eighty musicians becomes inspired—we don’t know why—and we play absolutely magnificently. We all say, ‘What happened?’” And she began wondering how that experience pointed to truths even larger than what happens in music.

I think of ways our coming together becomes more than the sum of the parts. And our efforts become infused not only by the presence of others, but by the Presence, the ultimate Creative and Creator.

And then I read this scene, in my rereading this time around, of friendship in action from The Fellowship of the Ring: Frodo is looking ahead to a desperately dangerous (and lonely) trip. He plans to go by himself, saving those close to him from the risks. But, says Pippin, “You must go—and therefore we must, too. Merry and I [and Sam] are coming with you. . . . you will need more than one companion in your dangerous adventure.”

Frodo is surprised and moved: “‘My dear and most beloved hobbits,’ said Frodo . . . . ‘I could not allow it. I decided that long ago. . . . You speak of danger, but you do not understand. This is no treasure hunt, no there-and-back journey. I am flying from deadly peril into deadly peril.’”

“‘Of course we understand,’ said Merry firmly. ‘That is why we have decided to come.’”

And of course, Frodo could never have lasted without his band of fellow travelers. Maybe Tolkien had Lewis in mind when he wrote that scene, thinking of the difference Lewis made in his literary journey.

I hope to be a voice that says, You can find other like-minded souls, and get more intentional about such support for any creative calling. The next step may be only a decision away. Maybe a text or phone call to a friend to tentatively bring it up. Or maybe you’ve been invited already to something, and you’re dragging your feet. Maybe, like me, when driving to such a gathering, you find all kinds of reasons to worry about how it will go. You feel vulnerable. And who knows? Maybe it won’t lead to the next big thing in your life.

But maybe it will, and the world will be the better for it.

---

Timothy Jones is a speaker, pastor, and widely published author. His books include Awake My Soul: Practical Spirituality for Busy People; The Art of Prayer: A Simple Guide to Conversation with God; and the forthcoming Fully Beloved: Meeting God in Our Heartaches and Hopes (Nelson Books). He also blogs at www.revtimothyjones.com and writes for Inkwell magazine, Fathom magazine, and the Rabbit Room.

Read more from Timothy on Substack.

For more resources on art and faith, sign up for our other newsletters: Poetry, Music, and Articles.

To support the work of the Rabbit Room, join us by becoming a member. Your membership helps fund everything from publishing new books to new podcasts, events, poetry, articles, theatre productions, conferences, and more. Membership is vital to our flourishing, and we’d love for you to participate. Click here to join or learn more.

Photo by Alexis Brown on Unsplash