It’s increasingly embarrassing to announce a creative yearning, especially the older you become. By the time you are thirty, you should know everything that you want out of life and be well on your way to acquiring it, and any hang ups from childhood should either have a resolution or a resting place in a photo album.
This is all conjecture that was shaped long ago from every source of media that I consumed and every overanalyzed assumption I made about other people. I just assumed everyone else knew what they were doing. I assumed that people with opinions and ideas had shining minds, something close to genius, but, as I got older, lived more, lived less, I learned that creativity does not mean perfection or genius. You can come into yourself at any time, but putting in the work is required.
I’m being a bit vague. Sorry for that. Not a great way to start this one-sided relationship.
The truth is, I’ve always wanted things for myself that I did not think I deserved, not enough moxie. I used to say, in another life, a lot. “In another life, I would be in LA writing CW shows.” “In another life, I would have already finished a book.” Why do those things have to be in another life? I think because it gets easier to compartmentalize our dreams as aging sets in. We come to expect things as children, and when they do not come to pass, we learn to put things in boxes.
The truth is, I want to write. I’ve always wanted to write, and I suppressed and embraced it numerous times throughout the years. I never really talked about it with other people expect the ones I trusted most, the people I was sure would not laugh because a creative life is alarming, a bit sad, really. It is a vulnerable position to be in.
Making art can look like creating a star—burning it bright and hard before it dies. Writers in the past always played hard and loose with their bodies (Hemingway) and others exit forcefully because art can be overwhelming (Plath and Woolf), but what about all the people in the middle? The writers and artists who aren’t monoliths of their generation, who don’t end of up in textbooks? Time is limited, but the space it takes up is vast; there is room to set aside for passion. Trying to create a star is counterproductive.
I promise that future posts won’t be this tiresome, but I wanted you to get a clear view of where I am coming from. I always had opinions, but I never thought they were good enough to share. In recent years, I’ve learned that at least some like what I say. That isn’t arrogance. It is accepting your worth.
I want to write about books and movies and architecture and Paris Hilton. There’s got to be some people out there who want to read about those things because if globalization has taught us anything in the last thirty years, no matter how weird you think you are, there is always someone weirder.
I will leave you this Sunday with a Spotify playlist I made a few days ago, “Biden My Time”. It is a declaration that the future is not perfect, resolutions will not come quickly, but that doesn’t mean we can’t celebrate for a moment.
I *think* I’ll post every Sunday.
Peace