creativity...what is it?

Have you ever seen This Is Spinal Tap? Oh yes, you have? Then you are cultured (yes, the good kind—like yogurt). Anyway, I want you to pronounce the title of this post like they say that line in This Is Spinal Tap: "The Druids...who weeeere they? What were they dooooing here?" The movie as a whole is pretty darn ridiculous, but that scene makes me laugh so hard my stomach hurts. Every time.

This post is about creativity, or the lack thereof. This year has been tough for my creativity. Maya Angelou famously said, "You can't use up creativity. The more you use, the more you have." Well Maya, I haven't been using it. I had a baby right at the beginning of 2020, which ended up being the most whatever year of all time. Postpartum fog coupled with being in a tiny apartment all day writing about mattresses has made it hard to do what I really love.

But I've decided to start anyway.

I've had a childrens' book in my head for years. Actually, I've had the title of this book saved in my phone for who knows how long, and before that, it was saved on my computer—my first computer, purchased in 2007. I think I've been through about three different iPhones and four computers since then, and this book title has somehow survived. I think that means something! So last week, I was putting my baby in her jumper and the first paragraph of this book finally smacked me across the face, or maybe it had been waiting to do that for a while but I was too tired to notice.

So I sat down and wrote it. And then I wrote the first chapter. And I started the second chapter! All of this during my lunch break! Who knew I could do other things during my lunch break besides scroll through Instagram and Pinterest? Maya Angelou knew.

I'm writing this post to remind myself that perfectionism is the enemy to creativity. I've started and finished projects I've hated, sure, but I've also made lots of things I really loved. And guess what, for everything I've made, love it or hate it, starting is always the hardest part.

So here's some things I've made that I'm proud of, and I hope you remember to just make stuff, even if it's terrible. Especially if it's terrible. 

Frida and her flowers

a mini of my favorite place: the Heceta Head Beach in Oregon

I saw this quote on Pinterest years ago (sorry, dunno who said it, maybe Abe Lincoln?)

my beloved American Fork Canyon in the fall

my favorite mini embroidery: Switzerland in a circle frame

I miss sweater weather

a favorite quote, and another face

alta wildflowers!

arizona home

collage: another excuse to buy old magazines (sorry, Houston)

line work is cheaper than therapy

I love drawing faces s'muuuuch

someday I'll blow this up and get it framed

the french countryside from above, for a friend who lived there for a while

work in progress (or "wip" as it's known in the crafting world)

my mom's childhood house <3

to my mom: no, that leaf isn't weed

this shirt was boring, so it needed strawberries

a friend of a friend is a roller derby queen, and I made this for her birthday! (those are her skates)

Tina Belcher 5ever

if you know me at all, you know I lurve old, rickety houses

in the rearview

 

I've heard this from others, so it's not just me. But yes, fall always makes me look back. I think it has something to do with fall being the last gasp before a long winter. The letting go of everything. And so instinctively, we reach back for the old memories, or something to hold onto.

I looked at my Instagram account a few days ago and I have only posted like 12 times this last year. I almost want to shake the shoulders of my past self just to tell her how much time she's gonna waste on social media just mindlessly scrolling, trying to numb out any bad feeling (and then, ironically, the bad feeling was replaced with other bad feelings, only they were in disguise as...something else I guess). This time last year, I wasn't in my happiest state of mind. Winter was on its way and so was my dread.

I left fingernail marks on fall and everything that came before it. I was imagining a vast wasteland of winter. Have you ever been to the salt flats?

Imagine a little speck in the middle of it, and that was me, in the middle of winter.

In my mind, that thought was enough to keep me up at night. Coupled with a mindless, unfulfilling job and living in a basement...I was basically a ghoul ready to haunt something. Maybe even myself.

This is not to say that there were not moments, even long moments, of happiness in my life. My husband is without a doubt the most patient, understanding person I could have chosen. Any time with him calmed my anxiety. But anxiety is not always so simple, and it cannot be "cured" by another person. You can only fix it yourself. So that's the tricky part, right? Because then you have to say "I need help. I don't know how to fix this thing." When you're already an anxious perfectionist, asking for help is about the farthest thing from easy.

And even when you do get help (which I did), you have to be willing to let things go.

Let things go.

Just like the trees do every year. This morning I noticed there are two autumns--there is one in early October, when most of the aspen trees explode in their fall colors and then die out. And after that initial bursting, we think it's over. A frost appears on the windshield or the sidewalk where the neighbor left their sprinklers running overnight. You close your eyes and wait for winter's first blow. But then!

All the trees that hadn't caught up to the first part of fall, they start to turn. And their colors might be the most beautiful of all, because they're mixed in together, all the reds and ochres and goldenrod and the rainy mists that follow. I don't really know what I'm saying now, except that I think it doesn't matter when you decide to let go, as long as you don't wait until it's already winter and the frost covers all those beautiful colors anyway.

typical summer night in ogden

 

if you know what movie this is from you win a corn dog

we drove past the corner of 21st and Monroe—

you know, by the Sinclair gas station with the good corn dogs 

(good by definition of gas station food)—

three cop cars and one ambulance and one stretcher 

and one guy in handcuffs. Oh and someone else on the stretcher, 

in a bag. The corn dogs come in a bag, also. 

They are not very fresh, but can be made decent 

by a microwave and a greasy white paper bag. 

This body bag was white, too, and the man in handcuffs 

stood casually with his weight on his left side, right foot 

up on the curb, talking to a policeman like you would 

the man who hands you the corn dog (seventy five cents). At first 

we pretended like the body wasn’t even there, like 

it hadn’t happened. Death had never been that close, 

ten feet away and next to a gas station and right as the sunset 

was getting to the good part and how is that fair? That’s all I kept thinking—I hope their last sunset was this good, 

I hope they weren’t sorry. And the ambulance’s lights were still on, 

but it wasn’t in a hurry.

broken flowers

Last night I discovered a dumpster in the cemetery, overflowing with the dying flowers from Memorial Day:

I think it means something, but maybe that something is different depending on who you are (hashtag LIFE).

To me, it was a little heavy. Two weeks ago an old friend of mine took her own life--and this is not the first time I've lost a friend to suicide. A famous fashion designer committed suicide a few days ago, and everyone was shocked. Seems like it's always that--confusion, wondering how you could have missed someone being that sad and why didn't you do more, the inevitable guilt, and then the weird one--anger. A couple of weeks ago I learned that I have the hardest time feeling and expressing this emotion. It translates to me being low-energy, because all of that "fight or flight" energy just gets stuck with nowhere to go, and then, yeah...tired. Naps. Sad naps. Shower naps.

I guess what I'm trying to say is that you should never feel ashamed or guilty for feeling something. An emotion just is. Let yourself feel it. And I really hate being angry--it means someone hurt me, I let them hurt me, or  they betrayed my trust or made me feel small or confused. But if I let it sit inside me, I end up feeling worse, always.

My therapist is a big proponent of throwing rocks--big ones. Or you could try hitting something (not a person)--a punching bag or a pillow or a ball. Seven years ago when I found out my friend had killed herself, I got on my bike and started riding away. I didn't know where I was going, but I had to do something. And I also wanted to cry without being seen.

Yes, bad things are going to happen to the ones we love. We can't prevent that, not really. But I think life would be better if we enjoyed all the time we had with them while they were here. If you ever feel alone or misunderstood or depressed, please reach out to someone. Even if you think nobody cares about you, I bet you there's at least one person who does. There's at least one person who will be sad to find out you're gone.

And if you don't have someone, you can talk to me.

a poem:

The Night Where You No Longer Live

BY MEGHAN O'ROURKE

Was it like lifting a veil

And was the grass treacherous, the green grass

Did you think of your own mother

Was it like a virus

Did the software flicker

And was this the beginning

Was it like that

Was there gas station food

and was it a long trip

And is there sun there

or drones

or punishment

or growth

Was it a blackout

And did you still create me

And what was I like on the first day of my life

Were we two from the start

And was our time an entrance

or an ending

Did we stand in the heated room

Did we look at the painting

Did the snow appear cold

Were our feet red with it, with the wet snow

And then what were our names

Did you love me or did I misunderstand

Is it terrible

Do you intend to come back

Do you hear the world’s keening

Will you stay the night

Source: Poetry (November 2015)

so you wanna become a writer, eh?

Jim = people who feel bad for those who want to write for a career

Dwight = the writers who shouldn't give a carp

*sips my huge water bottle full of lemonade because I accidentally made a gallon of homemade lemonade and so it's not really a sip it's more like a succession of loud gulps*

I very recently decided to own the fact that what I want most in life (career-wise, anyway), is to be a writer. You would think that after two English degrees I wouldn't feel weird about saying "I am a writer." But I did.

Usually, when people asked me what I wanted to do with my degree (which is my least favorite question....all ye who speak to young adults, please ask something else), I squirmed uncomfortably and said "Uh, I dunno."

"You gonna teach?" (always, always this)

"I don't know. I actually did teach already and I didn't love it." (*flashbacks to late nights grading and answering angry student e-mails)

"Well, teaching is great."

"Yeah...."

END CONVERSATION IN A CLAP OF THUNDER

I've been reading lots of self-help books and a lot of them say some iteration of this: what you are good at is not an accident. You are meant to use your god-given talents and share them! That doesn't just mean that because you learned to play the piano you will always be the pianist for Relief Society (but I did just end my streak of having this calling in the past five wards I've been in). Those things you are passionate about shouldn't go to waste! And while using them in church is wonderful and (usually) a good experience, it's not the only experience.

This blog is a microcosm of everything I wish I was, but I am not yet. But maybe that's the thing, maybe my expectations of "what I'm supposed to be" are complete trash. And I should put them where they belong--in the garbage can. So many writers suffer from that fake-curse of thinking "I'm not good enough." And I think writers are one of those groups that actually can say that without a hint of irony, because rejection is part of the gig.

Within one month of submitting a couple of poems to a dozen magazines, one wrote back and said my writing was strong and they wanted to publish, and the other said I "just wasn't a good fit." It used to sting a little, but I send out my poems to so many places it's hard to take things personally now. Maybe it's about getting comfortable with discomfort, with rejection, with someone saying "no thanks." Step one to becoming a writer: learn to take nothing personally, in a world where everyone does.

And people are still saying "no" or "that's a bad idea" to me in other ways, but I've decided not to care, because I know what I'm supposed to be doing. I finally know! And it was always right in front of me.

Since this two-week-old epiphany happened, I've had conversations like this:

my boss: "So, what do you want to do in life? What's your trajectory?"
me: "I want to write."
boss: "Hmm."

student: "What are you going to do with your English degree?"
me: "I want to be a writer."
student: "Oh." (while making a very thinly veiled painful expression)

person: "What did you graduate in?"
me: "English."
person: "On purpose?"

It's probably going to keep happening. And when I publish my first book, I will definitely, positively dedicate zero of my pages to those people.