When my wife and I first started dating, her artistic flair was one of the traits which attracted me to her. She was a photographer and photo editor. We knew early on in our relationship we would be able to work on our crafts separately together - independent in each other’s company. It was a beautiful symbiosis. Over time, I’ve discovered she’s more than a photographer. She’s also a painter and a jewelry maker.
As we are settling into a new house, her creative mind is overclocking. She is an overflowing fountain of decorative ideas: furniture and room colors and flooring and paint and … A couple weeks ago, she saw a picture of a mural painted in someone else’s home then decided she would do something similar in our living room. After receiving zero objections from me, she’s begun the project, still a work in progress. Last weekend, we bought a $5 end table at Habitat for Humanity and set it up in its desired location. Later that evening, she insisted we epoxy it to match the mural she’s painting. It’s now a swirly blue table and looks great.
She has a dilemma though. Her fount of ideas is relentless. It’s a never ending stream of consciousness with no off switch. I hear her say the words “What if we” at least a few times daily. These plans and thoughts and dreams erupting from her cranium are wonderful and delightful. Unfortunately, there isn’t enough time in the day to make all of her artistic longings become tangible.
I have similar struggles. As someone who has studied history and possesses an autistic knack for pattern recognition, it’s hard to watch the news and not guess what’s coming next. Sometimes my predictions are wrong - see my previous blog post for an example. But I can’t make it stop. My brain is wired to analyze if/then scenarios and morph those into digestible stories for others to consume. My furious creativity doesn’t cease at sociopolitical precognitions either. Any time I attend a baseball or hockey game, my brain constantly sorts through my internal jukebox to conjure which songs would better fit the moment than the songs selected by the stadium or arena’s in house DJ. And my writing … book ideas are piling up in the notes app on my phone and I know I’ll never live long enough to author all of them.
This is the curse of creativity. We are imaginative 24 hours a day. When we wake, when we sleep. When we struggle, when we thrive. Our brains are constantly visualizing new worlds, new words, new images, new melodies, and new possibilities. We can’t quit; it’s a part of what makes us who we are. To complicate matters - we all have day jobs. At least, those of us who haven’t retired have day jobs. Time card punches don’t stem the tide of creative musings. We get new ideas nearly all day every day. Some of us manage it better than others, and I am not one of them. But I try. My notes are meticulous and abundant. Book ideas, reminders to add certain songs into specific playlists, and board games I want to buy for family game night, I keep a record of it all. The noise never ends so I channel it as best as I can.
If this sounds like you, fear not. You are not alone. The curse of creativity is accompanied by a life of beauty, wonder, and awe. It might be devastating as much as it is comforting. In the creative curse you’ll find catharsis, healing, confusion, and purpose but only if you allow it. To thrive as an artist, you must always be ready because inspiration may strike at any (and often peculiar) moment.
My brother-in-law lives with us. He’s got a multitude of disabilities which prevent him from living independently. My wife is his caretaker and he’s our third wheel. Caring for and about disabled individuals can be frustrating so I attempt to have as much fun with him as possible. One of my methods to enjoy time together is to call him silly names. When I wake him up in the morning, or call for him to get shoes on so we can go somewhere, or bring him his bedtime snack, I’ll call him something absurd.
“Hey nacho cheese … ”
“Hey Larry Curley and Moe … ”
“Hey Macarena … ”
“Hey there Delilah … ”
“Hey Steven Michael Montgomery … ”
“Hey turducken … ”
“Hey spic n span … ”
Sometimes he’ll laugh. Sometimes he says “Stop iiiiit.” Sometimes he’ll let me know I scared him. Regardless his reaction, I always get a smile - enough to make the effort worth it.
Last night, with a banana in my hand, I approached his room intending to say “Hey dune buggy” but there was a short circuit between my frontal lobe and my lips because what I actually spoke did not follow my plan. When I say inspiration can appear at the strangest moments, the interaction with my bro-in-law last night is proof of concept. I blurted out some gibberish twist on dune buggy when the moment arrived. I handed him the banana while my hippocampus lit the beacons for Gondor. As I walked away pondering my verbal blunder I thought, “That would be a great name for the main character of a novel.” I unlocked my phone, opened the notes app, and created a reminder of an epic character name I need to use some time in the future.
What’s the name you ask? Well, an author needs to keep some secrets. I wouldn’t want to ruin the surprise.
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