I feel like every time I begin a painting, a sketch, a poem, a story, a book, even a digital collage (admittedly, those feel like lower stakes), it’s a very real risk. What if I hate it? What if what I create displays parts of me that aren’t so flattering? What if it’s offensive? What if it isn’t well-received? What if it’s ignored?
Nothing I actually create ever lives up to the archetype I have in my head about how I want it to look and feel. So, there’s the risk of that leading to a spiral of disappointment, and imposter syndrome.
There have been nights I skipped painting, because it’s messy. Or, I would have to change my clothes. Or I’m too tired. Or I have no ideas (even knowing that ideas come more readily when you show up to receive them, on the page, at the computer, on the canvas).
Even just slopping a bit of background color on a canvas makes me feel better. I don’t know how I manage to forget this, seemingly every single time. I just began two casual projects for fun. They’re drying on top of the toaster, to keep them away from the cat (the magnetic heart-shaped canvases I had left were smaller than I recalled).
Yes, bad art, bad writing, is a part of the process.
One of the bigger heart canvases that I had experimented with, back when I had visions of selling them as Valentine’s Day decor, I utterly detest. I’m also not a fan of one of the smaller ones.
And I had to admit to myself, making crafts for holiday decor is an entirely separate skill from random self-expression. The one doesn’t necessarily translate to the other. At least, not for me.
It was humbling.
“Wasted” supplies when I so rarely go to the craft store lately (something I should remedy, when I can), and two pieces I don’t like AT all.
I start over and make something else, letting go once more, or overpaint or edit what I have so far. Those heart pieces I think are irredeemable… the one, I tried poking at over and over again, without success… I tried nearly as many times with the larger one, as well. Nothing.
It’s easy to think what I make doesn’t really matter in some grandiose way like maybe sometimes I wish it did. But it has importance to me, personally, and I guess that’s really all that’s guaranteed. That, and maybe knowing that whatever is within you to create, won’t come into being without you.
Engaging with my creativity in some way every day helps me function. I sleep better. I get more day-to-day things done. I generally feel better. More alive. Plugged in. Possibly even less anxious. And more like I have something worthwhile to contribute.
A coworker and I like to talk about our stories in progress. And I have showed other coworkers photos of my art.
But there’s a temptation to listen to the inner monologue telling me there’s no point. It’s a hurdle that has to be overcome, over and over again.
I guess the only workable advice I have found is to try and focus on the making, itself, not the outcome.
Yes, I can self-promote to whatever extent I desire, but it’s in the actual making of things that I feel most myself. I share what I can, when I can, as best I can, and somehow have to let the rest just be.
None of my paintings at the library exhibition sold.
Here, however, is a photo I took of one wall of my art. I had I think a full 15 pieces displayed and gave a talk about my take on creativity, complete with PowerPoint, and a fresh smaller painting I brought to pass around.
The presentation was quite successful. I got a lot of compliments, especially from the woman who’d orchestrated the event. She’d said I had an awful lot to be proud of.
I believe I also have yet to sell any ebook or paperback copies of my last fullish-length book, or its related short story. Thinking about that for even a moment feels extremely discouraging. I had some hopes, after someone had sent me a message asking if I had any books for sale, or if the content was online only.
Maybe it won’t ever “hit.” But it was still fun to put together.
So yes. Art, creativity of any kind, is always risky. Maybe especially now, when there is such a push to censor marginalized voices. The horrors persist, but so do we.
Free-falling into the void.
“When you walk to the edge of all the light you have and take that first step into the darkness of the unknown, you must believe that one of two things will happen:
There will be something solid for you to stand upon, or, you will be taught to fly.”
― Patrick Overton, from the poem “Faith,” within the collection, The Leaning Tree
Not sure of Overton’s philosophical or spiritual position, but I appreciate the sentiment, regardless.
Also: I don’t smoke anymore, but this photo below just really felt like it fit the vibe– as much as I try not to post anything involving cigarettes, at this point.
(Also, also, yes, I fell hard into a major funk after my last post, reflecting on the Tori Amos lyric about why can’t my balloon stay up in a perfectly windy sky… I’m sure some of that bad attitude is reflected here. It’s not like art is torture. LOL…It definitely beats the alternative, of saying and doing nothing.
All the Bright and Sparkly Things 
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