I once had a client who was a writer. She was
very intentional , very sensitive. To intonation , to being understood. To
language used. Gradually, I got it.She was brilliant, sensitized either by her craft, or sensitized in a way that afforded her great gifts with her craft.
Of course, I never asked her what she wrote, nor looked it up, because for her, that would be invasive.
But she was in great demand, always working on some stage of a book, which was integral to my work on her, as an Acupressurist .
There were stages to each nonfiction book, one of which involved living in some
distant city, renting an apartment and virtually moving into an enormous grand
old library for the duration of the research.
I think even with the internet, what she grasped with the experience of living in the pertinent city, with the pertinent physicality of papers and other written materials. was essential . Immersive.
The next stage involved living somewhat close to here, renting out a small fallen apart shack on some dead end road in a forest , having meals delivered three times a day, sequestering herself except for regular bodywork sessions, and writing down those bones.
Then there was the editing stage, which sometimes was still done in the sequester cottage.
Finally, there was the promotional side, which involved quiet meet and greets, academic functions, and speaking to specified groups. All very carefully planned out by the publisher and restricted to her propensities.
If I had a good sense of her and her organs and the mode of existence she was engaged in, then the work I did on her was complex but congruent and the result smooth.
If I didn't, the response she had was not smooth, and disrupted her existence of being a writer in these various modes .
It was pretty specified, and interesting, and my work worked beautifully to accentuate both her artistic stability and function... until it didn't .
After she no longer came because my work no longer fit , I'd see her here and there, carefully navigating, with blinders, as she made her way to stores and gas stations and all.
Being in the supportive periphery of so many other's lives was a pretty fascinating ride.
I think even with the internet, what she grasped with the experience of living in the pertinent city, with the pertinent physicality of papers and other written materials. was essential . Immersive.
The next stage involved living somewhat close to here, renting out a small fallen apart shack on some dead end road in a forest , having meals delivered three times a day, sequestering herself except for regular bodywork sessions, and writing down those bones.
Then there was the editing stage, which sometimes was still done in the sequester cottage.
Finally, there was the promotional side, which involved quiet meet and greets, academic functions, and speaking to specified groups. All very carefully planned out by the publisher and restricted to her propensities.
If I had a good sense of her and her organs and the mode of existence she was engaged in, then the work I did on her was complex but congruent and the result smooth.
If I didn't, the response she had was not smooth, and disrupted her existence of being a writer in these various modes .
It was pretty specified, and interesting, and my work worked beautifully to accentuate both her artistic stability and function... until it didn't .
After she no longer came because my work no longer fit , I'd see her here and there, carefully navigating, with blinders, as she made her way to stores and gas stations and all.
Being in the supportive periphery of so many other's lives was a pretty fascinating ride.
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