Pulling apart an idea, and yourself, is exhausting, and being creative is hard enough.


Dear Nobody,

Hello!  I’m very pleased to make your acquaintance.  It’s not very often that you can write to a truly neutral party, and better yet, one who is happy to let you jabber on without interruption or judgement. 

As this is our first conversation, and as you are a vague figment of my imagination, I think it’s fitting that the first question I will pose to you is about creativity.  My question is: how?

I understand the basic concept, but the actual execution of it—that crosses my wires.  Of course, it’s not terribly uncommon for my wires to be tanged.  As I’m sure you can tell from this contrived letter-writing scenario, used rather than a simple blog post, I do tend to “overthink” things.  And it’s when I’m sitting before a blank page, with nothing yet to think about, that I am especially good at it.  For example, here is a typical conversation I will have with myself prior to writing:

           

Int: An extraordinarily cluttered bedroom.  It has never, not even once, seen a vacuum.

Me: I’m going to write a story about an apple.  This apple will live in a tree.  It is a good, happy apple.  I’m so smart.

Me, a few moments later: Why is this apple good?  How is it happy?  Is it conscious?  Does it have a soul?

Me: I don’t know yet.

Me: Well, that’s not very good.  You clearly haven’t thought this through at all.

Me: (truly apologetic, as if the entire universe has been let down) Sorry…but maybe it’s still a good idea…at least it’s original.

Me: You buffoon.  You dunce.  You mooncalf.  Original.  How many stories have been written about apples?  What do you know that John Milton and Johnny Appleseed didn’t?

Me: Oh no. (realizing a profound and awful truth) Nothing.  I know absolutely nothing.

Me: Yes, nothing.  Given this, combined with your limited life experience, perspective, and general self-aggrandizing pretentiousness, what gives you the right to tell this, or any story, at all?

Me: Oh—oh no.  I need to go watch Vine compilations for three months so I can forget that I exist.

Scene.

           

As you can see, the doubt and self-critique—which seem to come buy-one-get-one-free with any creative endeavor—can kill a story before it even gets started.  In my case, it has killed many.  Pulling apart an idea, and yourself, is exhausting, and being creative is hard enough.

So, maybe that’s all you can do: be creative and create.  And that’s terrifying—not knowing if you’re any good, if you’re simply fooling yourself, if you’re just on a long trek to nowhere.  But the point of art isn’t about being “good.”  After all, what is that great metric of “good?”  Who are we, Nobody, to say what is and isn’t “good?”

Like most things, this leads me back to Shakespeare (you’re going to need to get used to that, I’m afraid).  Specifically, A Midsummer Night’s Dream, and the mechanicals’ god-awful play.  In case you have not taken freshman English, Nobody, allow me to summarize.  These characters, a group of skilled laborers, intend to present the Tragedy of Pyramus and Thisbe.  They do an astoundingly poor job of it.  Their play is about the worst tragedy anyone has ever seen.  But it does turn out to be quite a good comedy.

My point is, Nobody, that you don’t even have to be “good” to create something “good.”  And your final product can be remarkable even if it’s unrecognizable.  The hard truth, that I know and keep trying to avoid, is that you just have to throw something out there.  And if it means anything, to anyone, it’s good.  Just pretend that you meant to do that all along.

For better or worse, the only way to make something “good” is to make something.  Whether it’s wise, or impactful, or important, or real…that remains to be seen.  It’s not up to you at all.

Well, except it kind of is.  That’s the good part.  To once again turn to good old Willy Shakes and A Midsummer Night’s Dream, “Never anything can be amiss / When simpleness and duty tender it.” 

So just create something—make it your duty, and make it simple (all good stories are, deep down), and make it yours.  The creation—that thing called “art,”—is only half of it.  Throw in a dash of luck, a pinch of public opinion, and a double helping of perfectionism, and you have a fickle brew indeed.  You really can’t count on any of that, Nobody.    

There is one thing that always stays true, though, whether your tragedy brings tears or laughter.  There’s always something to be said for any person brave enough to tread in the dark with an outstretched hand, waiting to seize upon something that no one else has ever seen.  I’d like to think that every artist is their own masterpiece.

Talk again soon.