Lost in translation

Thinking in (and writing from) images as an INFJ

You have an idea of something you want to create.

You can see the entire picture in your mind.

But as you begin the work, you're only able to create one tiny piece of the overall picture. And that one tiny piece doesn't make sense out of context. Kind of like a puzzle. Is this a cloud? Is it water? Or is it something else entirely?

Lauren Sapala talks about this in her book, The INFJ Writer:

Why can’t you translate what’s in your head precisely as you see it down onto the page?

This is the age-old disconnection between artistic vision versus artistic reality.

Many of us actually think in images.

The image, or the intuition, is always true. It’s when we set about unpacking that image or intuition (i.e., writing it down) that things can become muddled.

The intuition we receive is a diamond with a number of different sparkling sides, but our tangible reality only allows us to describe one side at a time. The side you choose to describe is your story. That’s why no matter how hard you try, you’ll never be able to get the whole diamond down on the page. What makes things difficult is that the Sensitive Intuitive never loses their grasp on their knowing that the whole diamond exists, and it seems to be somewhere just underneath their conscious mind.

From the dreamworld to this concrete reality, a lot can get lost in translation.

I found myself at this point over the last few days.

I'd created two containers for the writing: the Bibliotherapy club and the INFJ writers club.

I liked them both, and they gave me a place to put the writing until I could figure out how to organize the "bigger writing" for the overall/main project, Maison d'Evangeline.

I was happy with the lower stakes the clubs provided, but once I had them built, I found myself wondering where to begin with the writing.

I'd narrowed it down as far as topics go, but what did that mean? How had it helped? I was just as lost as with Maison d'Evangeline.

Still, it was built, and anything I’d do at this point besides write would be stalling.

I fumbled with it for a bit, but then started an outline.

It was helpful. I felt myself getting into some kind of a groove.

I even started writing this very piece. I was feeling kind of proud of myself. Until I did a word count and saw I'd only written 170ish words.

Okay, I thought to myself. Now what? A paragraph? That's nothing.

I considered my stuckness. What was it?

It's that this is one little piece of the puzzle, one little corner of a paint-by-number. And no one else can see the other pieces.

So, I imagined a visitor asking. What is this? What's it about? Or, better yet, Where's the rest of it?

Without more pieces or an explanation, there's no context, no rest of the picture. It'll take me forever to fill it in to a point where it's recognizable as the thing that it is (whatever that'll be). Once it's in its final third, it'll be obvious, but at the beginning, it just doesn't make sense—oftentimes even to me, let alone anyone else.

And even in the times it does make sense to me, it's still just one tiny piece of the whole picture, and there are 999,999 pieces left in the box!

I guess that's the good news with the internet these days. Used to be everybody knew everybody. The World Wide Web was small. Now, it's overloaded with tourists—there are so many people, it's hard to see anything.

But, again, that might be good news.

Because I can hang out here, in either of these little hubs, and paint a section at a time. No one will notice or visit for a while anyway, and when they do, it might not make much sense or there might not be much filled in of the puzzle, so they'll leave. Which only gives me more time. And with enough time, I can fill it in a bit more. Until finally, it starts looking like something. (Even then, I'll likely have to start screaming from the rooftops before people even think about meandering over to take a look. So who am I kidding? There's nothing but time!)

The truth is, we can piece it together, make a big mess of things, figure out what we're doing (or what we're even making), and no one will even notice (shoot, even the people you've asked to pay attention most likely won't).

So you can just keep writing, putting together the puzzle, piece by little piece, until it makes more sense, until it becomes something, until it becomes obvious.

I'm at just under a thousand words now.

One tiny section.

One tiny piece.

But it's something.

☰

Photo by Christopher Paul High on Unsplash

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