Downton Abbey is "crookedly beautiful", it said. It was a reader's comment at
the end of a writer/friend's blog about the BBC mini-series.
"Crookedly
beautiful." I nearly did a face palm. "That's so spot on.
Not a Pulitzer description, by any means, but still great. I wish I came
up with phraseology like that. Why can't I think of stuff like that?
Huh? Why?"
Then I looked at the poster's name. And it was
from me. From a year ago. So then I felt arrogant or creepy or perversely both. I also didn't see the brilliance of the phrase any longer.
Recently, a couple of very loyal,
supportive, and far too compassionate friends asked me why I hadn't been
blogging lately. Well....that's a long story. Let's call it a case of
over-stimulation. My life underwent far too much change, far too many
challenges, far too everything, and, for a writer, processing takes
time. We think. A lot. Not really about anything of value, worth,
financial gain, or community betterment. Just thoughts like, "Why didn't
I ever learn skateboarding? I might have really loved it," or "That guy
at the next table reminds me of a classmate who use to sit behind me in
History and braid my hair. I think he ended up in jail."
Stuff like that.
Past
all the mental muckety-muck, however, comes the real question: aren't
you ever going to put yourself out there and write your own stuff?
Most
of the time, when I review my past blogs or books or columns or grocery
lists, all I can think is, "Crap, crap, all crap." When I'm tired of
using that word, I usually call it, "kacke", which means "crap" in
German, "meirda", which means "crap" in Spanish, and "crop", which is
saying "crap" but with a British accent.
But as one of my
very loyal, supportive, and far too compassionate friends pointed out,
"Writers are never satisfied with their work." Then she followed that up
by yelling at me in a very loyal, supportive, and far too compassionate
way.
It's that way for every creative, I think. Maybe
everyone, too, no matter your industry or field. First, you second guess
yourself. Second, you go back to why you create/produce/perform/do in the first place.
As
an artist recently asked me, "Is it me? Do I just not have the talent?"
This guy has so much artistic talent oozing out of his pores he's going
to get a case of adult-onset acne. It isn't him. It's just the process.
This is how life is played: with failure and disappointment and beauty
all mixed in until you can't separate them.
Creating
is about trying and bombing, winning but mostly losing. It's about
skinned knees and black eyes, a chipped tooth and a stubbed toe.
Finally, you get a pat on the back and you can't stop idiotically grinning. For
that one moment, the pain never existed.
After that, you
start all over again and get a skinned knee and a black eye, a chipped
tooth and a stubbed toe. But you start. You just start. That's how you
create. It's how you find your artistic voice. It's also how you
live. If you dare.
What does that mean for me? For my writing? Not sure yet. I'm still thinking about learning to skateboard.
