Here’s the lowdown:
I’m a late thirtysomething person who owns a business, runs a household, and tries to occasionally dabble in creative endeavors. Professionally, even.
I am madly in love, and wish to stay that way, and that takes time. I am a parent, and wish to be a good one, and that takes time. I am a friend, and wish to maintain my friendships, and that takes time. In the past couple of years, I’ve had some huge changes in my life. I bought a restaurant, sent a kid to college. Little things.
My life is beautiful, but sometimes when I look in the mirror, I see almost no trace of a really lovely person I used to know–a gifted writer, an actor, a visual artist, an enthusiastic-if-mediocre musician. Those muses used to wake me up in the middle of the night, consume my thoughts. They’d move me to do things.
Over the past couple of years, the muses have come knocking. But sometimes they were inconvenient, so I’d tell them to come back later. I was, after all, busy and sleep deprived and stressed and taking care of other shit.
The thing is, if you tell anyone to go away enough, they’ll listen.
So the muses have been a little quiet lately. I asked them to come back, and they kinda rolled their eyes in the corner. The implication was obviously that I’m a fair weather friend, that they don’t wanna serve someone who picks and chooses when it’s convenient to love them.
And they’re right. I have treated my creativity as though it’s a burden, an inconvenience. And now I miss it.
So I’m gonna do my best to earn it back. I’m gonna create something everyday, and post about it here. The well feels dry, though, and I’m afraid it’s all gonna be bad.
Which is fine. Creativity without vulnerability is bullshit, yeah?
Deep breath. Here goes.