Over the years, I’ve made a habit out of celebrating the Friendiversary of C.S. Lewis and J.R.R. Tolkien on May 11th every year. Wether this is truly the day they met matters little to me. Instead, I let this made up holiday serve as a reminder of why I make time for creative community in my life.
I usually celebrate by making scones, drinking tea, and reading some old favorites. This year was a little different. I spent the day camping with dear friends, miles from the nearest cell phone signal. As the sun set behind an old country lake, we ate barbeque and sat until midnight talking by campfire. My post this year is a little late, but I like to think that Lewis and Tolkien would have approved of my choices. You see, while I like to celebrate their friendiversary on May 11th, their habit of being active in creative community is something we can practice year round.
I remember when I first started writing. Alone with my lukewarm coffee, I would sit on my porch morning after morning trying to create magic out of nothing. Truth be told, my hands spent more time on my head than on my keyboard. But that was the life I had chosen as a writer, or so I thought. I pictured Lewis, walking down an old country road, brilliantly forming complex characters in his mind which he would put to pen as soon as he got home. Tolkien, I saw, sitting in his study with the fire slowly burning down into ash, laboring over his languages while everyone else was snuggled in their beds.
Both of these men did indeed have their moments of solitude, but what is truly fascinating is not how they worked as individuals, but how they cultivated a friendship that spurred each other on to be who they were created to be.
Hear this. These men met together regularly and learned from each other for many years. They did work in solitude, but they also spent a significant portion of time sharing their work with one another and asking for feedback and critique. I think so often we only see Lewis and Tolkien as they were at the end of their lives, and we fail to remember that they were ordinary people who needed help, encouragement, and sometimes even strong critique. I would like to submit to you all that it was their friendship with one another, and the company they kept, that spurred their genius. I believe that their literary masterpieces are a direct result of their friendship.
Before the Inklings, Lewis was a mostly unknown poet who had never tried his hand at fiction. Tolkien was a philologist who was more interested in creating languages than chiseling away at a plot.
How many of us have held our breath alongside Ransome as we watched the battle of the Garden take place once more on Perelandra, hoping that this time mankind would make the right decision? And yet, it was Tolkien who dared Lewis to write a story about space travel in the first place.
How many of us have mourned the loss of beauty in a once-untouched middle earth and smiled ear to ear at every mention of a second breakfast? And yet, it was Lewis who encouraged Tolkien to spend less time creating languages and elvish anthologies and more time writing plots.
In order for these two men to become who they were created to be, they needed each other.
These men discovered – or rather, rediscovered – the secret to creativity: community. We were not made to work in solitude, but to share, to borrow, and to build upon each other.
I passionately believe that every artist needs their Inklings. You might be thinking, “Yes, well, I’d love it if there was a group like that around me, but there isn’t.” Well then, I’m challenging you to create one. All you need is one person in your field, a place to meet, and a desire to see each other succeed. I think so often we keep waiting for our own personal Lewis and Tolkien to show up at our door and meanwhile we miss the life-filled, flesh-and-bone artists around us.
In the fall of 2016, I was just beginning to try my hand at fiction. I attended a novel-writing course that met once a week for eight weeks. Two of the women from my course and I began meeting at coffee shops throughout the city to sit quietly at a table and write together. It was painstakingly wonderful. I’d go even when I didn’t feel like writing and I’d write. When one of us had writer’s block, we talked it out. Slowly, we found we didn’t just need each others’ presence and encouragement; we also craved each other’s feedback.
Nearly a year after that first writing class, four of us gathered in a living room with chapters of our novels in hand. We met again two weeks later, each bringing new chapters. A few months later, we invited another person to join us. Within the next year, we gained another new face. Finally, our numbers were at six. Six people from five different countries speaking four different mother tongues. We had very little in common, but we showed up at each other’s houses twice a month and we did the most gracious, loving thing we could do for one another: We tore each other’s novels apart.
We pointed out plot holes, spelling errors, flimsy characters, repeated lines, everything. It hurt. It was embarrassing. But each time I left that group thinking, “of course! Why didn’t I see that before?” Three years later, these people know my novel just about as well as I do. This group has been my eyes when I was too blind to see past the next chapter. They have picked up my pen and dipped it in ink when I wanted to call it quits. They have coupled encouragement with critique, and they have turned this lonely task of writing into a story of how I found my people and found my voice.
There was no Lewis, no Tolkien, no Barfield, but we kept meeting and we kept growing. We never intended to start a long-term writing group, we just kept showing up. If you know one other artist, you can start a creative community. That’s all it takes. Two people with a commitment to show up in a common, physical space every week and lovingly make each other better. Anyone could do this. You could do this.
I believe that our success as artists directly correlates to the community around us. Today, I’m not just celebrating Tolkien and Lewis, I am celebrating the six people who sit in a living room with me twice a month and make my creation more lovely, more true, and more captivating than it could ever be with just me.
If you don’t have your Inklings, I challenge you to find them. It will take time, but find them and let them revolutionize your work. They will, I promise.
It’s that day again… the day I bake scones, drink coffee with friends and celebrate two wonderful writers whose works cultivated a love for myths in me at an early age. C.S. Lewis, author of The Chronicles of Narnia, and J.R.R. Tolkien, author of The Lord of the Rings, met on this day over ninety years ago. Shortly thereafter, Tolkien sent Lewis an epic poem he had written. It was filled with lore and myth and the fantastical realm, passions they both shared. Lewis returned the poem several days later with notes, critiques and even suggestions for how Tolkien could make his lines flow better. Can you imagine actually critiquing Tolkien? It sounds almost absurd. But Lewis did, as well as passing along one of his own poems. And so began a small community revolving around this idea of sharing and critiquing one another’s works. You might know them as the Inklings.
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rebekah.eckard 