This post was written by Sawyer Wood, BYU Humanities Center Intern and student fellow.
I’ve recently been learning more about the idea of flow. As outlined by psychologist Mihalyln Csikszentmihalyi in Flow: The Psychology of Optimal Experience, flow is described as a state in which someone is completely focused or engaged in a task or activity. Some might refer to it as being “in the zone” or “in one’s element.” Flow constitutes diving into something so entirely that all concept of or concern with self disappears; one feels like they could continue forever, pursuing the task or activity for its own sake. Flow is praised by Csikszentmihalyi and other psychological professionals due to the high levels of satisfaction and fulfillment it often brings into a person’s life.
Many have theorized about what humans can do to get into such a flow state more often. Prominent ideas include defining immediate goals and choosing tasks or activities slightly above one’s skill level, which forces the hyperfocus required for flow. While these strategies certainly make sense, I’m of the opinion that a flow state isn’t something that can be prescribed, manufactured, or even reliably predicted. We can hope to encourage moments like these, but I think how and when they start is largely out of our control.
I’m more interested in what happens once flow begins.
While pondering about flow, my mind has turned (somewhat unexplainably) to 19th-century British literature. There’s no doubt that Romantic-era poets like Percy Bysshe Shelley and Samuel Taylor Coleridge wouldn’t have used terms like “flow state,” but I’ve still found an intriguing amount of crossover between their writings and modern psychological theories. While they don’t expressly address flow, both poets discuss elements of their creative processes, including challenges they face with capturing moments in which they feel an overflow of powerful emotion.
When describing the mind in creation, Shelley uses the metaphor of “a fading coal” to portray how difficult it is to write down the essence of an idea or a feeling [1]. He argues that inspiration dims more quickly than it can be recorded, stating that “the most glorious poetry that has even been communicated to the world is probably a feeble shadow of the original conceptions of the poet.” Shelley’s metaphor, in addition to describing poetry, resonates with the way many psychologists talk about flow: as something ever-elusive, often waning before it can be accurately captured. Many who have felt flow are also familiar with how challenging it is to describe the experience to someone else, and how hollow those attempts often feel compared to the real thing.
Coleridge, one of Shelley’s contemporaries, provides further evidence of this post-flow deterioration in the preface to one of his most famous poems, “Kubla Khan” [2]. As the preface claims, the poem came to Coleridge in a vivid dream, originally spanning somewhere between two and three hundred lines of lyricism . But as he eagerly began to write it down after waking up, Coleridge was interrupted by someone who came to talk business, which took him away from the poem for over an hour. When he returned to continue writing, he found that the vivid ideas in his mind had all but disappeared, leaving only eight or ten scattered lines and images. Though “Kubla Khan” is still considered some of Coleridge’s best work, it numbers only fifty-four lines, in contrast to the two to three hundred it might have been. Coleridge refers to it as “a fragment.” Though the true origin of the poem has been challenged by more than one critic, I think the principle it illustrates is important. It’s one that I’ve also seen play out in my own life, as recently as two months ago.
At the end of last semester, I woke up on a Saturday morning the week of finals. I had two more exams to take and plenty of material I needed to study, but as I walked into my living room, I had the distinct impression that it was an opportune time to write. So, perhaps happy to procrastinate, or vaguely aware that feelings like those don’t strike too often, I sat down in my favorite writing spot and began typing.
Minutes turned into hours, and words kept coming. I don’t remember feeling aware of the passage of time, my plans for the rest of the day, or that I was in what I now recognize as flow. I was just engrossed in the story, and in the shape it was beginning to take on the page. After some time, my wife sat down in our living room, and I recalled something I’d wanted to talk to her about. It had nothing to do with the story or writing in general, but I reasoned I could ask her quickly and get back to writing. But as I began to talk to her, I felt the inspiration, the flow of the story, slipping away. I don’t know any other way to describe it; I literally felt the inspiration leaving me. Rather abruptly, I said I couldn’t talk anymore, and dove back into the narrative. I later apologized and explained why I’d stopped so bluntly, but in the moment it felt like there was little time to explain. Gratefully, as I jumped back into writing, I found that the flow returned and the story continued to unfold itself.
Once I’d finished, I realized I’d been writing for over three hours. I’d missed what I had planned as study time for my final, and barely had time to take it at all. I didn’t do as well as I might have otherwise, but I don’t regret the choice, because the story I wrote continues to mystify me. I’d never written for so long before, and the story was…well, it was probably the most complex thing I’ve ever written. It’s been almost two months, and I’m still trying to make sense of it. But I know it flowed, and that the process was and is deeply meaningful.
So, maybe our focus shouldn’t be on forcing ourselves into flow; what matters more is what we do with it when it comes. The best way to encourage flow might be letting it know that it’s welcome, that you’re willing to set aside whatever you’re doing to let it get comfortable. I don’t think that guarantees that flow will enter your psyche, but it does guarantee it will stay longer.
I consider Coleridge and the poem he might have written. Would it have changed the world? Maybe. The fragment he wrote is still considered quite good. More importantly though, I think it would have changed him, and that’s what flow, as well as literature, is made for. It’s not about trying to force a certain outcome; it’s following the direction your inspiration takes you. So the next time someone wants to talk business when you’re in the middle of flow, shut the door.
References
[1] Shelley, Percy Bysshe. “A Defense of Poetry,” 1821.
[2] Coleridge, Samuel Taylor. “Kubla Khan, Or, A Vision in a Dream. A Fragment,” 1816.
