Two Rivers
living is as essential to the writing as writing itself
I woke up this morning thinking I had nothing left to write. I have nothing to tell these people in my newsletter. Why did I say I would do this weekly? I have nothing left to say. Two weeks in and I have shared every thought I have.
If that was true, ok, no problem. I’d stop writing this newsletter. But these were not thoughts coming from a place of resolution or self-confidence. They were born out of fear, and the idea that my self-worth is tied to my creative output.
My journal this morning looked like: I don’t know…I don’t know…I don’t know! I don’t know what kind of films I want to make. I don’t know what kind of things I want to say. I don’t know what kind of novel I want to write.
A sense of urgency rippled through these statements. My fear said, I have to make an amazing, groundbreaking film now, or else I am not an artist. I have to write a bestseller book or else what am I doing? I’m not an artist. I’m not creative.
Digging into these fear-soaked thoughts has led me (as it often does) backwards.
When I was a teenager, I created obsessive lists for myself detailing the life I should live each year of my high school life. 14, I would focus on grades. 15, I would start dating. 16, I would write the next great novel. No big deal. This would get me into college and grant me scholarships. This way, I could move out.
I was highly ambitious, but I was also very scared. There was a lack of stability in my childhood home. My family fought often. We moved cities and countries multiple times when I was a child. I was afraid to come home to the anger and pain that felt ever-present and tangible. At a young age, art and socializing became methods of escape for me. I journaled, wrote poems, lyrics, and stories. I drew. I banged around on my sister’s keyboard. I took pictures on the family’s point and shoot when we got one. I made up narratives with dolls. I drew outfits I would like to wear in notebooks. I collaged. I created my own world amidst the pain of my external one.
The urgency with which I created things as a child shows me now that I was clinging to creativity with the hope that it would show me a way out. And it did. I got lost in this pain often, stumbled in it, took it out on myself physically and emotionally, and made decisions which caused me harm. Still, art was an outlet. It gave me a way of escape.
Sometimes, however, I look back at how many poems I wrote when I was in this escape mode, and compare where I am now. Why am I no longer so prolific? Have I run out of things to say? And then I ask myself the question, the stereotypical poison of, Was I more creative when I was very depressed?
There is an absurd irony to this. I am still making things often. I am writing this newsletter which is a form of creative expression. I am also a full-time student in English and Art Practice, where I have been making things for classes at a very fast pace. My thoughts of why aren’t I making things? come from a place of not writing a poem every single day. It’s a ridiculous standard.
When I dig into the thoughts, even a little, I see that. But the fear is so compelling. It makes such wide leaps in its arguments. It can go from, I’m not making things right now to, I will probably never make things again. I’m not creative, I have nothing to say and no good ideas.
The fear has made itself such a comfortable nest in my head that sometimes what it’s saying becomes background noise. I don’t hear it loud enough to question it. I just let it talk and talk.
To hold myself a standard of where I was when I was in deep pain is to romanticize being in a state of intense pain. Besides, creative output is no longer the sole tool I have for expression. I have strong relationships with others. I am now able to be present in my life, my body, and home in a way I did not feel was possible at a younger age.
Creativity is not separate from the details of my life. The two blend together. It is as Hanif Willis-Abdurrqib wrote in the touching essay “On Joy,”
When we talk about “the work”, as writers, so many of us mean the actual work of writing. The work on the page, of course. After a year of wrestling with the fragility of my own life, and the life of my closest human love, I realized that “the work” is also the work of living. It is the work of loving others when we can, taking care of ourselves when we can, and knowing not to let the former overwhelm us into forgetting the latter. Those two different types of work are two rivers flowing into the same body of water, for me. I don’t know how to write healthy and productive poems if I’m only doing one side of the work.
What I can say is that I am no longer willing, or able, to only do one side of the work. What I make is now coming out of a place of wanting to care for my health on many levels. Not being guided by an urgency and desperation to be heard may mean creating less art, going slower with sharing, and letting things sit for longer.
Creativity is not solely measured by what can be consumed by others. It is a way of play and observing the many details of life. Everyone possesses creativity and expresses it in a myriad of ways. People are creative in their speech, their actions, relationships, self-definitions, how they care for others, and on.
My creativity is not always expressed when I write poems, draw images, write this newsletter, or make things that can be directly be consumed by others. It is expressed in the details of my life. It is not simply a tool for expressing pain. It is a form of gratitude and celebration of simply being.
I am thinking of this poem I wrote December 2020, which articulated living as a way of expressing creativity and craft. It reminds me, time is a spiral. We circle over the same thought paths and come to deeper points of reflection. Sometimes we make new connections when we cross these paths.
Questions I am asking this week:
How can I enjoy creativity in the small details of my life? How can I simply enjoy my life? What place do my feelings that I am not making enough root in? Where do they intersect? If I am not making things at a massive speed, is that bad? If I don’t feel like writing poems for a bit, is that bad? What is bad? How much fear lives inside of it? What is my fear saying? What does it want me to hear beneath the worry it conveys? How can I create habits around creating and practices around mediums I enjoy, while also giving time to the other areas of my life? How can I use creativity to build the details of my life, rather than escape them?
Recommendations:
Two singles from my friend Leah Levinson’s upcoming album “whatever i Love you”, put out under her project Cali Bellow. She has been a friend, collaborator, and inspiration for me for years.
The documentary, Prism, which looks at racism inherent in cameras’ technology. Saw it this week at BAMFA. It was very creative, and looked at the topic from different viewpoints. Three filmmakers made this documentary, and I enjoyed that the film was divided into sections directed by each filmmaker.
Laurie Anderson’s song “Tightrope,” which was in my head when writing about fear.
I so relate to all of this, and feel a sense of relief in that you were able to name this urgent feeling of doing more, not doing enough, etc, as fear. Oof. Of course. And how well we coped by frantically creating when we needed to! I also loved this quote, "I realized that 'the work' is also the work of living," it reminds me of a conversation I had with a (non-writing) friend where they asked if I had started writing a project I was talking about and I said yes, but then clarified that I had done all the writing in my head so far. They laughed, and I laughed, but it's true! And I stand by the rumination/living stage as part of the process. :)
"Creativity is not solely measured by what can be consumed by others. It is a way of play and observing the many details of life." Spoken like a true artist.
In a letter to Robert Mapplethorpe before of his death, Patti Smith wrote: "... of all your work, you are still your most beautiful. The most beautiful work of all."
You are creating you, too.