Seriously

Too seriously. Seriously.

Taking creativity seriously is like using salt in the kitchen: it’s a necessary ingredient, but too much will ruin the dish. I realized yesterday that the sodium content in my attitude is toxic and may be why I’ve been unable to write much of anything for months.

A fun fact: no one is going to die if I don’t write. Not even I will die. I’ll be unhappy, but Ter will tell you that she won’t notice any difference because I’ve been a misery when I am writing.

I’ve been moaning about how hard it is; apprehensive about how much I’ll get done in a session; anxious about the value of what I’ll get done; and downright negative about what I do get done. It’s gotten so bad that I actually admitted to myself on the weekend that I don’t want to do it anymore. I heard the words, clear as day, in my head:

“I don’t want to write.”

Huh?

Wait a minute, kiddo. How can someone who insists that she’s a writer, who proclaims that she’d rather quit breathing than quit writing, who took four frigging weeks of vacation in order TO BE a writer not want to write????

Hm. Okay. Bits and bobs and the Sunday “cold start” could be the problem. I’m out of shape, my creative muscle gone to flab with too infrequent use, so obviously, I must dedicate myself to it.

In other words, get serious.

Hit the computer at 9:00 a.m. and keep office hours each day. Approach it like it’s my job and I’ll have to get somewhere, right?

Each morning last week, I’d tell Ter, “I’m off to work,” and I’d disappear into my room. I wrote for three solid days, started to get some momentum, struck a patch of  “uh oh, what’s happening now?” then the week was over and life got in the way.

Life does that. Life is far more demanding than the Muse because life is about survival and in the big picture, creativity isn’t. It’s nice if you can combine the two. I’m not there yet, but I had the fourth week set aside specifically to indulge inspiration. Yesterday was my first serious crack at it. Despite the weekend revelation that I don’t want to do it anymore, I decided that poor self-discipline was the problem and if I just show up, the Muse will oblige.

Well, kudos to the Muse. Who wants to work with a crabby, cynical, frustrated colleague?

I packed it in, considered slashing my wrists, and opted for some yoga stretches instead. Following that, my little voice suggested continuing with Liz Gilbert’s Big Magic, and the section I happened upon was a timely wakeup call about attitude. Approach creativity like it’s the prize at the end of the Green Mile and every step will be shackled to a concrete block. 

In other words, good luck getting anywhere.

I was reminded that my creativity is a gift. Take it seriously by viewing it with gratitude, respect and humility, but remember that it’s also supposed to be fun. It’s not work. It’s play. It’s free-flowing and experimental, and it’s safe. No one will die if it doesn’t get done.

So I’m changing my attitude.

No more “going to work.”

I am going to play.