Sticks and Stars

Last night the boys and I decided to stop at a produce stand we pass to and from childcare and see if we could avail ourselves of some corn on the cob in honor of the gorgeously sunny and warm day that was gracing our fair city. After acquiring said corn (as well as carrots, tomatoes, artichokes, blueberries, raspberries, strawberries, onions, onion ring batter mix, smoked salmon and all natural gummy fruit snacks – god, produce stands are just as dangerous as bookstores and animal shelters) I came home feeling very summery and wanted to write a post but felt pressured to come up with more than just, “corn is yummy.” I decided I could write a post about summeryness and bounty and sharing the simple tasty joy of crispy dripping corn on the cob with my boys (or boy, rather, as the cob delivery method was somewhat beyond my little one – and if I correctly recall my government-sponsored child nutrition brochures, my little one is still too young for corn anyway), but all I really had the energy for was, “corn is yummy,” so I didn’t write at all.

This is the story of my life lately. My life that seemed so bright and rich a few weeks ago seems back to its usual dull greyness. The inspiration and hope I felt was replaced by the creeping knowledge that I’m not going to actually produce anything, I never produce anything, so maybe it’s time to just give up trying.

Then this morning during my bus ride I was reading this week’s chapter of The Artist’s Way (even though it seemed a little pointless to do so) and the author talked about how we creative folks tend to be just a wee bit dramatic about things and so instead of taking scary baby steps toward leading a creative life, we race to edge of the cliff and wring our hands about how we will possibly leap into being rich and famous and successful creators.

Bingo.

I’ve been feeling very down on my creativity and I couldn’t figure out what was the trouble. Or truthfully, I was pretty sure that I knew exactly what the trouble was, that I was a complete failure at all creative endeavors (and writing in particular) and should just give up and turn my life over to a career in accounting with a hobby of paper clip collecting on the side. Rather than taking the small baby step of actually sitting down and writing or thinking of ideas about which to write or even reading books about writing, I’ve been standing at the edge of the cliff lamenting that if I can’t even sit down to write I certainly can never be an actual writer; and that inviting a tense and anxious career of writing is only asking for a life of misery; and how since everyone else writes more prolifically and with more clever ideas than I do, if there are writing jobs/contracts/book deals to be had, they’re obviously going to get them instead of me; and how my writing isn’t even that good since I can’t even think of things to write about, so obviously I am a creative fraud who only qualifies as a writer because I keep insisting on labeling myself as such.

After being stuck by lightening on the bus this morning I realized that I need to narrow my gaze, I need to institute some nearsightedness into my life so that I can’t even see that stupid cliff anymore, so that I can only see enough to take some tiny baby steps. I need to take myself back to that process of baby steps because for weeks I was incredibly high off of it. It was like the best, most magical speed I’ve ever taken, treating myself to luxuries like skipping out of work for an hour to browse a toy store or an art gallery, stopping to smell the prolific flowers that line my walk from bus stop to car, buying myself a soft, lacy blue matching bra and panty set instead of the practical white bra I intended to buy, lighting candles at dinner time, spending an evening drooling my way through a stack of cookbooks borrowed from the library with no intention of cooking any of it. The Artist’s Way gave me permission to focus on the process of creating a creative life, to treat myself and pet myself and tell myself how wonderful and brilliant I am with the assumption that the end result, whatever it is, whenever I get to it, is going to be awesome. And that makes sense. Assuming I’m going to live to be 100, I’m pretty sure that 70 years of lacy bra buying and flower smelling is going to do a hell of lot more for me than sitting paralyzed in front of my computer, brain as blank as the screen in front of me.

I got lost in the results. I spent a few weeks on the process and so I was ready to see some production. Art galleries? Check! Lacy bra? Check! Indulgent sculpture magazine? Check! Mood ring that makes me smile? Check! Check! Check! It’s all here, so where’s my short story that’s supposed to come from all this creative living? Where’s my painting, my sculpture, my sketches, my movie script, my collage, my dance routine? And of course, once I started focusing on the results, I lost the process entirely. Why bother to stop to admire the ripples in the sand on the beach when I know it’s not going to get my novel written? Why waste time taking myself on artist dates when my sketch pad is going to remain just as empty? But today I understand. It doesn’t matter if my novel ever gets written or if my sketch pad ever gets sketched up. If buying a fish tank for my cubicle at work makes me smile every time I think about it, if listening to new music makes me dance around my apartment until I fall down laughing with my four year old, if every day I find myself compulsively smiling during my bus rides home because I’m just so fucking happy with my sweet life full of little pleasures, isn’t that enough? Isn’t that better than enough?

This entry was posted on Friday, May 25th, 2007 at 11:46 pm and is filed under Uncategorized. You can follow any responses to this entry through the RSS 2.0 feed. You can leave a response, or trackback from your own site.