I turn another year older tomorrow. (I'm not going to tell you my age, but I will say that I'm snugly ensconced in my thirties. I'm no beginner, but the proverbial hill is still safely in the distance.) Birthdays are difficult, I think, for us creative types. I've been sitting here all day with my buddies Snowstorm, Flu, and Time of the Month drinking cup after cup of whine, bemoaning the fact that I'm (lip quiver) not where I want to be.
Instead of devoting all of my time to my creative endeavors, I have to show up at the gray cubicle every day, doing work that's rote and often unfulfilling, because I'm a talentless hack. My novel isn't progressing as quickly or as ingeniously as I want it to, because I'm a talentless hack. After three years in New England, I'm still stumbling over the basic cultural mores of living here, because I'm a socially inept talentless hack. (For anyone considering relocation: it's essential to know what team Tom Brady plays for, own clothing that's not black, and if it's snowing, you still have to go to work.) I feel itchy and out of place and terminally scattered and unproductive and very capable of run-on sentences.
I'll pause here, so you can all cry for the tragedy of talentless hackery that is me.
I hope you used at least three tissues. I used an entire box. I was mired in self-doubt and self-pity and just...self today. I tried to read Eudora Welty, but that led to the disappointing fact that I am not Eudora Welty. I read a page of Ray Bradbury in the bathtub and tried to weave lyrical loveliness into my novel, but my loom just wasn't working. So I threw an impromptu pity party and then I went out and shoveled the driveway and it was so cold my tear ducts froze. And now, because this blog is about you and not about me, I'm going to tell you how I solved the problem. I'm not going to coddle you or me with words about how hard it is out there, how most writers have to have a day job, how everyone feels this way. These things are true, yes, but I know that they're of little comfort. Here are the two things that you absolutely must do:
You must be an adult.
You must be an artist.
One is not more important than the other, but you're going to need the first in order to achieve the second.
Being An Adult
Being an adult, for me, means paying the bills, eating and sleeping regularly, going to the doctor, and doing what I say I am going to do. Being an adult often feels picayune. It is boring and plodding as all get-out. But here's the thing about being an adult: On days when you're feeling really shaky as an artist, the adult is the one who takes care of you. The adult shovels the driveway so that the artist can write.
Being An Artist
Only you know what being an artist means for you, and I'm not going to bore you with my own nebulous and probably pretentious definition of the role. Know, though, that being an artist is not your invitation to be cruel or dismissive to others, or to brag, or to slack off and get stoned too much, or to decide that the rules that apply to everyone else don't apply to you, or to shirk your basic self-reliance responsibilities, or to be self-destructive.Remember that you must be a creator, not a destroyer.
Here's the really important part about all this: you cannot compare your artist with somebody else's adult. Yup, your brother the lawyer is objectively way more successful than you are. Becoming a lawyer is a linear path (albeit one that requires a great deal of discipline and hard work) and being an artist is not. You putting food on the table and at least thinking about retirement? Doing something for your creative project every day? Then stop with the self-flagellation. It doesn't get the dishes done or the pages written.
All right, profundity-negligible insights from the wallowing snow-covered trenches over. I'm feeling a bit better, but when I blow out my candles tomorrow my wish will still probably be in some way related to Eudora Welty's talent level.
No comments:
Post a Comment