Writing at the Wellspring: An Online Course on Creative and Spiritual Purpose

Recently I finished teaching a five-module course for Weirdosphere, the online learning platform created by the founders and hosts of the Weird Studies podcast. The title was “Writing at the Wellspring,” which, not coincidentally, is also the title of my newly written and not-yet-published book on creativity and spiritual purpose in an age of upheaval. That book, plus my A Course in Demonic Creativity, served as the required texts.

More than 80 students signed up for five weeks of lectures, suggested reflections, writing exercises, and vigorous group discussions. It was a greatly fulfilling experience for me as the teacher, and reaction from the students was likewise intensely positive, with many of them telling me the readings, lectures, and interactions generated a transformative experience for them.

I may end up teaching the course again in the future. You can read a full description of it in my Living Dark newsletter. Here’s the heart of that description:

October 22 to December 1, 2024

MC101: WRITING AT THE WELLSPRING

A Course in Daemonic Creativity

with Dr. Matt Cardin—author, educator

Where does creativity come from? Why do ideas and inspiration feel as if they come from “outside,” from an external source that whispers directly into the mind? What if the key to unlocking both your creative potential and the purpose of your life lies in embracing the darkness of the unknown? What if the path to spiritual awakening is also the path to authentic self-expression as a writer?  

Beginning October 22, Matt Cardin, a two-time guest on Weird Studies and one of the great contemporary exponents of weird fiction, is offering “Writing at the Wellspring,” an online course based on his books A Course in Demonic Creativity and the brand-new, unreleased work Writing at the Wellspring: Creativity, Life Purpose, Nonduality, and the Daemon Muse.

This course goes beyond the typical writing or creativity workshop.

Students will progress through a series of lectures, readings, and discussions to explore the concept and experience of creativity as an inner collaboration with a separate force or intelligence within the psyche—what we can call the unconscious mind, the silent partner, the secret self, or, most evocatively, the muse, the daimon, the daemon, and the genius. The course will delve into the core concept of “living and writing into the dark,” embracing uncertainty and trusting one’s intuition as a pathway to unlock creative destiny. Students will examine ways to understand and navigate the tension between the drive to create and the impulse toward total stillness and inactivity that can accompany spiritual insight. Matt will share nondual perspectives on effortless action or creative quietude as a way to align personal creativity with the creative current that animates the cosmos. Finally, the course will examine the possibility of using writing and other creative work as a “monastic option” that makes a monastery of one’s life and provides purpose and meaning in a time of apocalyptic cultural transformation.
 
Students will receive access to the full text of both of Matt’s books, plus the full text of his short ebook Transmitting Vision: Essays on the Writer’s Path (previously available only to subscribers to his blog/newsletter, The Living Dark), along with additional suggested readings, plus prompts and exercises for sparking the imagination and deepening our understanding of ourselves, our world, and how the reality that gives rise to both can tell us what we’re here to do.

Introductory note and index to ‘Journals, Volume 2’

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Volume 2 of my journals is now available from Sarnath Press. Here’s a portion of the brief introductory note that appears at the beginning of it. It describes the rising sense of exposure that I felt while creating this volume, as the entries I was transcribing grew more and more recent:

For a full introduction to this journal, including an autobiographical sketch that establishes the wider life context of each entry, see volume 1.

Regarding the many significant gaps in coverage during the years encompassed by the present volume, in some instances these gaps represent places where I have omitted content. In a few such instances, I have briefly summarized the nature of the excised entries. Other large gaps represent either periods for which I have now lost my notebooks or periods during which I went silent and did not write in my journal. In both such cases, I have entered brief explanations.

Finally, on a personal note, as I worked my way through my notebooks chronologically to create the manuscripts for both volumes, I found that whereas the older entries often felt like someone else’s writings, as if I were unearthing old bones in a textual-archaeological dig, the more recent entries progressively began to feel more like “me.” Thus, the content of the latter years in this second volume, which extends all the way to last summer—less than twelve months ago as I sit here writing this introductory note—makes me feel distinctly more exposed and vulnerable. I simply point this out for whatever it is worth. The fact that future “me” will look back on these same entries, and on the sense of vulnerability just described, with the same detachment that present “me” currently feels toward the older ones, is just one more testament to the fundamental strangeness of the ego self, and of its relationship to the wider, deeper world of timeless total identity and reality, that I grapple with throughout this journal.

MATT CARDIN
Pyatt, Arkansas
March 2023

Additionally, here is is a downloadable PDF of the book’s index, showing the multitude of topics that entered my journaling inferno during my thirties, forties, and early fifties:

Index to Journals, Volume 2: 2002–2022

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On feeling the call to absolute stillness

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Are you ever tempted to abandon all of your creative projects? Let them collapse? Maybe even let your whole outer life crumble as you sit there silently and just watch it all burn down? Is there ever an inner spiritual call to do this?

This is a question and a temptation that has suggested itself to me multiple times over the course of my adult life. The peculiar nature of my mental-emotional makeup apparently renders me highly susceptible to such thinking. Naturally, this has made itself known in my private journal. The example below is a case in point that shows me grappling with the pull toward absolute inertia.

When I wrote those words, I was deep into editing my mummy encyclopedia and conceiving the proposal for my paranormal encyclopedia, while also carrying on a full-time job as a college writing center instructor and English faculty member, even as I was managing all the necessary responsibilities to my family. In the center of this swirl of competing calls and obligations, the desire just to let everything go was a constant whisper, a silently thrumming inner suggestion that hovered on the margins of my awareness and sometimes converged toward the center.

And into the midst of this came the above-quoted passage from the works of Oswald Chambers—who would later become the subject of my Ph.D. dissertation—to amplify the whole thing. That particular journal entry will appear in volume 2 of my collected journals, whose proofs I’m currently editing for publication later this year. I share it here for those who will immediately grok what I’m talking about, those who are personally familiar with the inner call to total silence and stillness.

I have no particular advice to offer about this experience, other than to state that it needs to be recognized and honored. Just a couple of days ago I encountered the following words from nondual teacher Robert Wolfe, from his booklet “Elementary Cloud-Watching: Contemplating the Meaning of Living in the Moment” (excerpted in his biographical essay at Amazon). They convey the mood of this inner stillness as well as anything possibly could:

Civilization and stillness—quiet, inactivity—do not go together. Civilization is a continual process of choices; stillness comes without choice. There is nothing which can be done to create this stillness. It is not something which is to be acquired; it has no value as currency. It is, put another way, priceless.

One must relax, to breathe this stillness. Not just the body: the mind, the psyche. One must relax ambition. Ambition and stillness are not compatible. There is no ticking of the clock here. There is no effort in stillness.

An author event at the library

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Today the library at my college hosted an “author luncheon” featuring employees who have been published. Here’s my table, featuring me + Divinations of the Deep, Dark Awakenings, To Rouse Leviathan, What the Daemon Said, and my horror, paranormal, and mummy encyclopedias. Four colleagues also had tables set up featuring their publications. A fun time was had by all, as enhanced by the presence of sub sandwiches.

The monk, the apocalypse, and the demon muse

I’m currently tending an idea for a new book. It has arisen in connection with the following two thoughts, which in turn follow on from my reflections a couple of weeks ago on Ray Bradbury’s “book people” and Morris Berman’s “monastic option.”

First, for the past decade-plus I have felt/suspected that America’s collective adoration of apocalyptic fictions and fantasies is not unconnected to the now patent emergence of some truly catastrophic trends and scenarios in real life. This predates, by the way, Demon Lindelof and Brad Bird’s savvy exploration of the same idea in Disney’s Tomorrowland movie (which I heartily recommend even though it’s flawed).

Second, in The Twilight of American Culture—a book that I can hardly believe is now 23 years old—Berman mounted a devastating analysis, both academic and polemical, of America as a country and culture that is definitively past its peak and on the downhill slope of collapse.

Berman expanded his critique into a trilogy consisting of Twilight plus two additional books with similarly winsome titles, Dark Ages America and Why America Failed. In the latter he explicitly explained one of his guiding principles in writing it, which actually articulated an approach that had guided the previous two as well: He deliberately did not include what one reviewer referred to as a “happy chapter. Too many books, said Berman, mount a compelling, even an unanswerable, argument that some current situation is grave, dire, a clanging emergency—and then conclude with a single glib, fatuous chapter that lays out a plan to “fix it.” “[B]ooks of this sort,” he said in Why America Failed, “or any book about the United States, is required to conclude on a positive note, showing how things can be fixed, how they will be different in the future if only ‘we’ (which is who, exactly?) take matters into our own hands and create a different outcome. But this is fantasy. History doesn’t work that way, and I am not going to join the legion of authors out there who out of naïveté or a desperate kind of hope (or maybe just a desire for sales) attempt to pull a rabbit out of a hat at the eleventh hour. There is no rabbit, and the hat is coming apart at the seams.” In Twilight and the other books in the series, Berman said his view is that 1) history clearly shows a cycle of maturation and decline playing out in every culture and civilization, 2) this never, ever varies or reverses itself, and 3) the U.S. is clearly living out its own decline stage right now. As Agent Smith said to Neo, “You hear that, Mr. Anderson? That is the sound of inevitability.”

I find this view quite persuasive. So I guess I’m saying that I think we currently have both things happening at the same time. On the one hand, our collective addiction to apocalyptic fantasies is both spawning and reflecting a proliferation of real catastrophes. On the other hand, this trend or tendency is wrapped within a real and irreversible trajectory of decline and collapse.

As I mentioned two posts ago, Berman’s suggested action during such a time is to adopt what he termed “the monastic option”: Follow the lead of the famous Irish monks who “saved civilization” by finding some worthwhile area of endeavor—a field of knowledge, a set of skills, a blueprint for a humane way of living, whatever calls deeply to you—and deliberately seek a way to preserve and transmit this to a new culture that will arise in the future, after the present one has burned itself to the ground. To illustrate and flesh out the point, Berman explicitly makes reference not just to the witness of history, and not just to what he takes to be “new monastic” efforts that are currently underway (such as the Clemente Course in the Humanities), but to various manifestations of this theme of cultural preservation through a post-collapse dark age in apocalyptic and dystopian fictions, including, as mentioned, Ray Bradbury’s “book people” in Fahrenheit 451, who memorize and effectively become books during an age when reading is banned, so that one day, when things have changed, their knowledge can be written down once again.

You might infer from my recent focus on these things that such ideas have been occupying my attention. You would be right. As I said at the top of this post, I’m currently, and speculatively, incubating an idea for a new book that will fuse these ideas with my A Course in Demonic Creativity. In other words, a book about the discipline of the demon muse, the discipline of divining and aligning with your inner creative genius, as a way of identifying and cultivating your own monastic option, your own unique “great work,” in the face of the apocalypse.