I have a team of professionals who help with my writing process. I have an agent who promises to get my work into the right hands, an editor who troubleshoots content-building and sentence formation, experts in my field of psychic development with whom I continuously brainstorm concepts and angles, and then there is my dad.
He’s the one who told me that instead of struggling, I should ask for help. He’s kind of my writing coach; he reminds me when I’ve been away from my desk too long, encourages me to stay longer at my keyboard when I’m in the flow, and he’s great at being a sounding board if I need to talk out how to articulate ambiguous concepts. My best writing days happen to be when I’m wearing the golden wristwatch he wore for many years. It has no alarm to stir me if I sit too long, and rests there silently reminding me that he believes in me, just as I do him.
Today is one of those days when the concepts are so convoluted and the words to describe them so fleeting that my whole team shows up unbidden in my conference room. Each one takes their turn, giving me feedback. They’re my advisory board. When their talking overlaps, it becomes a foglike din, and I have to step away from them to clear my head. I go into the kitchen for an espresso, but their banter trails me. When I’m back at my desk, they interject, relaying their varied perspectives.
For the agent, it can’t be so niche that it is unrelatable.
For the editor, she assures me she will hold her seasoned input until my second, third, or 10th draft.
For the various experts, it’s more like dictation. Word for word, one or the other of my team lays down the track to distinguish their exact amending over my favored words.
Today the experts are in luck. Because I can be overly simplistic when trying to convey the concepts that float through my head, I yield. Their words are more nuanced. I’m sure there is a distinct difference when I let the experts have their way.
No wonder my various editors highlight paragraphs, noting: This is not your voice. They are, of course, right. I have simply transcribed the concepts that are just beyond my mental grasp, but are easily accessible to my team. I can’t help it. And I’m eternally grateful. They are a bit verbose. They feel their opinions matter and are insistent that I hear them out, comprehending the great depths of their vast knowledge.
Usually, I’m the one calling our meetings, asking for their help. They gather in my office or join me for a walk through the local woods. But there are also random times when they show up unannounced, like today, interrupting and interjecting because of their own agendas, desires, or maybe something else. Maybe they want to make sure they’re mentioned in the acknowledgements.
My helpers approach with different styles. Some are concise. Some are gentler and fluid. Together, we work in a flow of comprehension and artistry. It doesn’t always matter that I don’t understand what they are trying to convey. They tend to repeat themselves at those times. When I ask if they could say it another way, I get symbolism or metaphors. The concepts they want to insert are sometimes too deep, even for me. Those that I find too difficult to grasp intellectually become visual presentations that quickly or fleetingly come to mind. It’s as if they speak as a vibration that translates into words. Or they simply airdrop an understanding into my knowing. Otherwise, we both must think things through. Because we are so focused on delivering the information, there are times when our thoughts become one and the same, and we can’t tell any of us apart. It goes well beyond “two heads are better than one” and shifts to “great minds think alike.” I write as it comes and hope their words inspire others, too. I am honored to be in their circle. I brought my dad into the mix so that I could see a familiar face. He keeps me grounded in our heady moments of contemplative conversation.
Their supporting roles offer a gentle approach, and the only issue, if I were to complain, is that many times they call at night, when I am asleep, and fill my head with a deeper understanding than I may have had during the day. Maybe it’s because my mind is soft, more pliable, and receptive in those uncomplicated moments when I’m tired and would rather be drifting off.
When I sit down to write my books on my own, my words are backed with knowledge gathered from 30 years working in my field of intuition and a lifetime of engaging with this material. I am no fool when it comes to these concepts. But I realize, as my team gathers around me, there is so much more to learn. These moments are grace-filled. I know this. But I do not always accept them with ease. Many times, we get into debates about what and how I should say things through the words filling each page. I often think if I were to quote them word for word, it’s repetitive or redundant. I keep reminding them that I am the journalist among this team, knowing that less is more. But still, we each over-explain. And at those times, they are quick to make way for the editor.
We all vie for the space on the page. Entire chapters can be from their perspective, or any combination of my words and theirs. They are a tough lot. It can be a bit much, but I appreciate their aid. And I’m grateful that every time I call on them, they show up. I don’t know that I would or could do this work without them. They are my cohort. When I first decided to write about the how-to of my work, I put out a help-wanted request, and in no time, this group came calling.
I just hope this combination of help and human services works for the greater good. I’ve given my life to the discovery and delivery of the content. And while I know I can be stubborn when they have their take, and I have mine, I do think we’re an absolutely amazing team, even if I’m the only one who can actually see them.
Constance Messmer is an intuitive expert, hosts her own podcast, and has authored several books that explore intuition and human potential. She lives and writes on Martha’s Vineyard. You can find more at constancemessmer.com
Photo: Constance Messmer with her dad. Courtesy of Constance Messmer.