Have We Forgotten Human Ability?

Rodin, Mouvement de danse, étude type F. 1911. Bronze, black-brown patina. Cast from 1954. Sold for CHF 32,5000 (approx. $56,000.00 CAD) by Koller Auctions, Zurich, Switzerland.

Almost fifty years ago, I visited the Rodin Museum in Paris. Rodin’s sculptures captivated me. How could he sculpt such energy and movement into a tiny bronze statue? Art, as in writing and most creative endeavors, seeks to engage readers’ emotions.

Rodin certainly engaged mine. Remembering, I felt again the raw, oppressive heaviness in the Burghers of Calais, the joy and motion in those six-inch dancing figures. I couldn’t have imagined then that I would write a book and even attempt poetry to express the depth of emotion I felt staring at Rodin’s creations.

Memories morphed into thinking about the writing process. Until I began, I didn’t know the process was so demanding, how much thought and care went into crafting each word, sentence, and chapter. This week I read about another author who was accused of using AI to write his book, and about the issues swirling around this case. Against the backdrop of what AI can do, I ask: have we forgotten human ability?

I will not cite the author of this book as I haven’t read it, nor will I comment. Perhaps there’s more to it than we, on the outside, will ever know. This post focuses on the process of writing a book and the very human ability to strive, to persist despite obstacles, to know discouragement and joy, to care about every word written.

For months I had agonized over what I would do after I retired. There were lots of options, but still I hesitated until one morning. Awakened instantly at 5:30am on August 22, 2022, I heard one word in a firm and commanding tone: WRITE. I couldn’t get to my computer fast enough. Every morning for six months, I woke up at 5:30am to write. After about 50,000 words, I stopped and sent it to a beta reader. You can imagine how pleased I was with myself that I’d actually written a book in six months. I laugh as I remember how naïve I was. It wasn’t a book; it was a first draft. I eventually decided my “how to” book was not what I wanted to write, so I changed the title and started the book over as a memoir.

That meant I was getting deeper into remembering emotions, calling up memories of past events that pointed to healing and transformation. As I wrote, I dove headfirst into childhood traumas and the false stories I’d made up to cope with the intense emotions of my sensitive, empathic self. Again and again, as I was writing, I pushed myself to go deeper into why I was experiencing dreams, visions, and remembering past lives, and began to see patterns in my life that definitely needed changing.

The writing process was driving my transformation until I discovered that the answers to all my questions weren’t on Google, or in another book, or through taking a class with an expert. To be fair, though, the classes I took all pointed back to an inward process. I had to do the work. Over about 10 years, I studied to become a Reiki Master and took Theta Healing classes toward becoming a practitioner. Another class and summits explored EFT (Emotional Freedom Technique) or Tapping. I read voraciously and practiced all those healing techniques on myself and occasionally on others. As I looked inward, I transformed, and so did my book.

It's one thing to write about transforming my life, and quite another to write a book that readers will find meaningful. Fortunately, I discovered the Federation of B.C. Writers classes and jumped at the chance to learn more about the craft of writing. However, very time I took a class with FBCW, I learned something so vital to writing or grammar, or structure that I had to edit my book again and again. I lost track of the number of times I read through my book, making changes I knew would make my book a better experience for the reader. If I had to guess, I read my book cover to cover approximately 15 times, changing it because I learned something about writing. Only then did I submit it to a wonderful human professional editor.

Three years raced by; life happened. I fell, broke a rib, and had a huge wake-up call to learn more about writing after a couple of beta readers pointed out more writing errors. Thank goodness they did, but I felt like the worst writer on the planet. Depressed and discouraged, I paused the publication process while I sorted myself out. I asked my partner’s beloved father to read my book. He was looking forward to it, but that summer he died. We miss him immensely.

Restarting the publication process, I got back into the myriad of decisions one needs to make before the manuscript gets formatted and was planning the launch for September 2026. I booked the venue, and then became very ill with a disease that, if not caught in time, causes blindness and/or stroke. Thank goodness my doctor caught it in time. I pushed through the last professional edits, had my ISBN numbers, and the manuscript was being formatted. At that point, I realized I was not healthy enough to make the crucial decisions needed for copyright and the last stage of production. I had to step away from the book again and get serious about caring for my body. I cancelled the September launch.

My human ability to write a book felt like an impossible feat as I struggled with brain fog worse than menopause and an inability to remember the words I wanted to say. My capacity to remember a to-do list faded to struggling to remember two items. I learned to write lists in the daytimer I took with me everywhere.

There was one thought I held onto as I left my book alone for the first time in almost four years. This thought was a “knowing” thought, another human ability called intuition. I knew with certainty that my book needed me to sink into its heart, to encourage readers, through my story, to evoke their primal urge to matter. The primal urge to matter encourages us to remember who we are as humans. In remembering, we learn to love ourselves. With love comes reconnection with our souls and the passion to do what we were meant to do and be.

Despite life happening, I knew I would return to my book a little wiser to encourage readers to go through their own inner process to remember they do matter. Three years ago, I wrote a poem in another moment of discouragement. It described what I believe is the most crucial human ability—to experience life, turn inward, and remember who we really are.

The day dawned on a

carefully assembled figure

glaring in defiance.

The face, as constructed

as the clothing protecting its wearer,

reflected a startling profile in the mirror.

The face grimaced, peering closer

at furrowed lines etched in

eyes leaking sadness.

The lips, as cracked

as dry river mud, and feet worn out

by countless paths walked, stood waiting.

A dream stirred in the day’s last hours,

escaping from the depths of a hidden heart.

The eyes pierced the darkness,

as brilliant rays of rippled

light visions lit the sky,

and formed words.

I AM.

Alice Carlssen Williams, 2023