Posts Tagged ‘creativity’
Moved Out of Dad’s House…But No Apartment Yet
The last week was very hectic, and not in a good way. I said goodbye to my father’s home, the place I was raised along with my sibs; that was not fun, not pleasant, and was quite frustrating, besides.
I did have some help to get out of Dad’s house, mind. My good friend Lika and her husband and son helped me greatly. (Note that all four of us have significant physical limitations, but we did our best to work around them.) My sister and niece helped the day before the move-out, doing their best to consolidate and remove clutter (along with getting all of my clothes into one place; that’s a handy thing, and I appreciated it). Lika was able to find several things in my bedroom that had eluded me for months, for which I thanked her profusely.
But leaving was still tough.
See, the first thing I had to do the day of the move (which was last Sunday, BTW) was to rent a U-haul truck. I had no trouble renting it, but a great deal of trouble actually getting up into the truck (as it was not a low-rise type of truck, anyone who attempts to get in there has to have better knees than I do). At first, I didn’t know what I was going to do. Then my friend Lika came to the rescue, and she drove the truck (which was fine with the U-haul people) while I drove her car back to Dad’s house.
So, one obstacle down. A whole bunch to go…
At any rate, we loaded the U-haul with as much stuff as we could find. Some stuff still got left, including many of my books and some of my sheet music (probably most of it, but as it had mildewed in the basement over the years, it would’ve had to be thrown out anyway). But as far as I know, I got out all of the music I’ve written over the past twenty-plus years, all of my clothes, and at least some household things like chairs and my bed.
We took it to the storage place I’d picked out, and unloaded it. (Actually, I mostly watched Lika and her family do this. They knew I was struggling mightily by that time.) Then we went out to eat at George Webb’s (as they’re open 24 hours), and they went home as it had been a very, very long day.
I couldn’t get everything, though. Food was left behind (mostly canned food and yogurt). There was just no room for it in my car. In addition, all the pots and pans were left, as were silverware, plates, cups…I did manage to get out the microwave, the mini-fridge, the slow-cooker, and the blender.
Because I was quite tired, too, it took me seven hours to find nooks and crannies in my car in order to take as much stuff as I could. (Lika had already taken my musical instruments with my permission, as I felt they were safer with her than with me under the circumstances.) I had a few panic attacks, and at least one of them was so bad, I thought at first I was having a true, honest-to-Goddess heart attack.
Eventually, I left Dad’s house, after saying my final goodbyes, and wishing it well during the renovation phase. It was a good house for my family, and I will miss it.
Then I had to deal with the next obstacle, which was driving a fully-loaded car on a very sunny day. I’m not normally driving at that hour, much less with so much stuff in the car. It was a struggle to keep going, as I was so tired, I had to repeat like a mantra, “Stay in your lane. Hold your lane. Hold your speed,” over and over.
I’ve never done that before and hope to never have to do it again. But concentrating on that worked, and I drove safely without issues. (Score one for the good guys. Or the good girl. Or whatever.)
But as the title says, I have yet to find a new place to live. I am on quite a few waiting lists, and I have hopes one of them will have room soon.
For now, though, I’m staying with family. This is not a long-term solution, but it gives me time to rest and recuperate. I need that time, as moving took a great deal out of me.
This reminds me of something Michael, my late husband, said. After we’d moved into our new apartment in Iowa, which was hard on both of us as both of us walked with canes (we had no help), he said that he could not face another move. He just did not feel like he was up to it. He was right, though in this case, I think he’d have rather been wrong as him “not moving again” happened because his body gave out.
This might’ve been why I had the bad panic attacks. It also might’ve been why I wondered, again, how I’ve made it almost twenty-one years without the love of my life, and thought such self-defeating things as, “Your music won’t matter. Goodness alone knows, your books certainly haven’t sold much. Maybe you’re fated to live in obscurity the rest of your life.”
All of that may be true, though I hope it isn’t. Still, I have to do what I believe is right. I’m doing that.
And if my works never matter to the world as a whole, I just have to remind myself that out of all the creative sorts who’ve ever lived, we only know a fraction of their names, much less what they did. That does not make what they did bad, wrong, or insignificant.
Anyway, the move was stressful, difficult, painful (you don’t want to know how much I hurt after all that), and frustrating. But I’d like to think something good can come from it, somehow…even if I don’t yet know what that “something good” will be.
Tell Negative Self-Talk to Take a Hike
Folks, I’ve recently realized something that I think has value. And that is exactly what I said in the title line: tell your negative self-talk–the stuff that hits you in the middle of the night, or maybe at other times, that says nothing you do will ever matter and that no one wants your creativity, thank you anyway–to take a hike.
See, because of my initial training as a musician, I know a lot about failure. Very rarely does a musician get through a performance playing everything the way they wanted. If you get all the notes right, you didn’t get the feeling right. If you got the feeling right, you missed notes. Maybe near the end of the concert, you thought you were finally going to have a perfect one…and then something went wrong at the last minute.
We’re human, so nothing is ever going to be perfect. This means if you want perfection, whether it’s as a writer or as a musician or as anything, you are doomed to disappointment.
Now, as for negative self-talk: it can be insidious. “Well, your sales record shows that no one wants what you write…” is one of the biggest problems I have right now, and I have to throw it out.
Besides, I know better than that. Sometimes you can do everything right, and for whatever reason, it’s not time for your books yet to make any sort of dent at all.
How do I know this? My friend Loren Jones had it happen to him. When his books were picked up by Twilight Times Books several years back, he did far better than he’d done with a previous micro-press. Same books. Same editor (yours truly). Better visibility and covers. Which all led to more sales–far, far more sales.
Yet Loren’s work hadn’t changed. He wrote good novels, then and now.
See, all we can do is our best. We can’t force the world to notice us, or our hard work. We can only continue to do the work, because it matters to us, and because it’s the only thing we want (and need) to do.
It can be difficult to tell those awful words inside you, that tell you that nothing you do matters or ever will, to take a hike. But you must do it.
Don’t let your fears keep you from realizing your dreams. And those fears include, most definitely, negative self-talk.
One Step at a Time
Folks, I figured this week’s post should be about something we all need.
Is it optimism? Well, optimism never hurts, but while I believe optimism is helpful in the main, it’s not going to get you to sit down and write or create (not by itself, anyway).
Is it faith in yourself and your ideas? Well, again, this does not hurt and can only help.
But when you have much faith in yourself, and you’re not sure your ideas will ever matter, what do you do then?
What I try to do is to take a step back, see the big picture, and realize that while I can’t control the market (or the court of public opinion, either, truth be told), I can control what I do.
I know that for myself, creating something new is absolutely essential. Whether it’s in music or words (no matter what type of words, either, as sometimes a poem can say more in two short pages than a novel can in hundreds), cooking something different, or just being willing to experiment a bit to learn a new skill (how I learned latch-hooking, years ago, and needlepoint, much less how to make an oboe reed and/or finish off a clarinet or saxophone reed) can help me keep going.
Life, you see, is as much about learning as it is about anything else. That includes learning new things about yourself, your talents, and the uses for same.
So, when I lack optimism, I tell myself that I’ve done creative work before and will do it again.
When I worry that I don’t have enough faith in my ideas, I put that to the side and keep going anyway.
Persist, persist, persist. That’s my motto.
It should be yours, too.
Sunday Thoughts: We Are All Works in Progress
Lately, I’ve had one very important thought running through my head. That thought is, “We’re all works in progress.”
Think about it, please, for a moment, and perhaps you’ll understand.
Our lives are happening right now, all around us. We are a part of history, whether we understand it or not. Whether our lives feel important or not, we partake of something akin to an infinite tapestry…our shades of thread are different from anyone else’s, and what we do with our gifts and talents is up to us.
Yes, there are obstacles. Yes, there are frustrations, and pain, and problems, and many times we wonder if what we’re doing makes any sense. Yes, there are issues with getting along with others, even those you are most motivated to understand. Yes, there seems to be more and more difficulty, the older you become (in experience, if not in age), of how to put yourself first or at least get it into the equation (rather than automatically putting yourself last, which does not work and only adds to the frustration, pain and problems accordingly).
Every day we get up, though, we can accomplish something.
Even if we’re sick, we can get up and take care of ourselves the best we can. Get our rest. Eat whatever we can tolerate. Save our strength.
And if we’re lucky, even on the bad days, even on the sick days, and even on the least encouraging days, we can find that spark of creativity that lies within us.
I live for creativity. (No, it’s not just for pointing out Michael’s memory to people who didn’t get a chance to know him. Though that’s important to me too, as I’m sure you know if you’ve spent any time at my blog at all.) So when I can’t create, it stifles me.
The only thing I know is that as a work in progress myself, every day brings a new chance to do something good. Something creative. Something positive.
Or at least to help a friend and/or loved one feel a bit better about the burdens they’re enduring.
We can do something to help the world around us. We can do something to become our authentic selves.
On this Sunday, reflect upon what you can do to make the world a better place. Then, perhaps, call a friend if you’re up to it, or write, or cook up a storm, or crochet, or do whatever you can that feeds your spirit and gives you positive reasons for living.
That, to my mind, is the winning strategy. And it helps us fill in our own works in progress with more beauty, delight, and joy, too.
Heat, Humidity, and Writing
Folks, I’m still alive. Covid-19 hasn’t gotten me yet, and I hope it never will.
But the heat and humidity here in Southeastern Wisconsin have been brutal for about a week. We also haven’t had the world’s best air quality. And the two things have slowed me something fierce when it comes to writing, though I have managed a little progress here and there despite it all.
I’ve found that high heat, plus humidity, seems to be more difficult to manage than the bitter cold in the winter. I don’t know exactly why this is. It’s not that I enjoy cold so much; far from it. But at least when you go indoors, you can get a respite from the cold and a hot shower will do some major good.
I don’t have air conditioning, so dealing with the heat and humidity is definitely a challenge. It does sap my strength. I am an asthmatic, as I’ve said before, and that means I have to be hyper-vigilant…or at least make my best effort at being prudent. I get annoyed at having to be so “safe,” mind you, but it’s better to be safe than sorry.
Staying safe is essential, of course, no matter if it’s the heat, humidity, Covid-19, the bubonic plague, or trying to stay away from murder hornets. (I think we all should be able to get behind that. Who wants to get stung by a murder hornet? I don’t even think another murder hornet would, but that’s another story…ahem.)
Still, I’ll move forward, slowly, and keep a positive thought. It beats doing anything else by a mile. And that way, I may accomplish something.
What’s going on in your life? How are you handling the heat and humidity on your end, or if you’re in the Southern Hemisphere, how are you handling the winter? Tell me about it in the comments!
Continuing to Battle…(Dealing with Adversity, Part the Nth)
As the title says, I’m hanging in there. My health is no better, but it’s no worse, either. And I have been able to do a little writing, even a bit of fiction writing, over the past several days. I also was able to help a friend out with a novella, and that gave me a great amount of personal satisfaction.
So that’s a positive step. And I’ve needed those, as temps fell to fifty below zero with wind chill factor for most of the past week in much of the Midwest — including where I live.
I don’t enjoy being shut in the house. (I don’t think most of us do.) While the work I do is internal and creative, it helps to be out and about at least a few times a week. I enjoy being around people (and dogs, and cats), for the most part. And it gives added richness to my life to do more things, competently, than to just sit in the house and figure out why I’m not writing. (Or sit in the house and wonder why the current story isn’t speaking to me; what have I missed?)
But I have tried to look at it positively, or as positively as I can under the circumstances.
What’s helped me most is to realize that every day, I get to make another attempt. It’s like what former President Jimmy Carter said about spirituality and being a better person: every single day, you can choose to do better. Be better. Or at least do more with what you have. (This is my best paraphrase. But I do encourage you to seek out articles and books about the former President and his beliefs on faith and spirituality. They are definitely worth reading.)
The obstacles I have in my path are different from others. And they’re different from what they were before my husband passed away. But if I am careful, and try not to put undue pressure on myself (always difficult, as I am a perfectionist; you may have gathered this?), I can do a little at a time.
And those small things can add up to bigger things, over time, if you don’t get frustrated with the lack of instant satisfaction, the lack of instant creativity (ha! is there such a thing?), or your own lack of patience.
For those of you facing long-term health issues, way too much stress in your lives, or simply wondering whether or not what you do makes any difference at all: It does. Keep doing it. And try not to question your need for creative solace, if you can…because that’s one of the things that makes life worth living.
What are your tips on dealing with adversity of a health-related nature or anything else that takes away from your writing time? Tell me about it in the comments.
Collaboration With a Purpose: Let’s Talk About Men (International Men’s Day)
Folks, it’s International Men’s Day. And as promised, the bloggers who comprise Collaboration with a Purpose — including yours truly — are going to talk about men. We’ve talked about International Women’s Day before (here’s my post for that) and I, personally, mentioned International Women’s Day a couple of years ago…so it’s high time that International Men’s Day got its fair share, no?
(Jane Love made the graphic above.)
Men, these days, often feel underappreciated. Too many times, they’ve been told they’re “privileged,” because they’re men. They’re expected to succeed from the get-go, and yet, they grow up with many of the same fears, struggles, and problems as women — what will I do? How will I become my best self? How can I find love and happiness? And so forth.
When men try to find ways to express themselves, they often aren’t understood. Compounding things for them, there are two big stereotypes that cause trouble; first, men are often expected to be the “strong, silent type,” and so showing emotions can be very difficult. Second, men are often supposed to be the breadwinners, even now, in most situations…to a much larger extent than most women, the garden variety guy out there worries about how he’ll take care of not just himself financially, but his family, too.
There are some folks out there now who seem to undervalue the fact that men struggle as much as women do with finding their place in the world. I don’t understand this. We’re all human beings. We have many of the same motivations, fears, desires, etc., and we all need to come to grips with who we are and what we’re going to do in this world.
But men, somehow, are just supposed to know what this is.
My late husband Michael assuredly felt like this. He told me, on multiple occasions, that when he tried to better himself educationally, his needs were not understood by his parents. He graduated high school a few years early, worked in a comic books store, signed up for the Navy as soon as he decently could (his mother had to co-sign, as he was still under eighteen)…and then, he had some sort of accident while running in Naval training that broke both knees.
He was eighteen years old. The only thing he’d wanted to do was now closed to him. So what was he going to do?
He went back home after his knees healed. He started work as a typist for the Naval Base in Oakland as a civilian, probably because it was the closest he could get to his old dreams. And over time, he became a contracts administrator, because he found he was very good at both problem solving and small differences in contracts…and these two things added up to a job he could do that was useful.
Then, his world was rocked again when the Naval Base closed. He could’ve followed his job to a different base somewhere else, but he didn’t want to do that. He was married — not to me, as he hadn’t met me yet — and his then-wife had found work and he wanted to stay where he was. He loved San Francisco, you see…the place he’d spent much of his young life, and most of his adult life also.
So he stayed. And wrote fiction. And edited, sometimes, for friends. And worked on his art — he sketched, and his drawings had real life to them (unfortunately, I don’t have any of them with me, as they were lost during our move somehow). He also did a type of macrame with ropes, and sewed, and cooked…basically, Michael was creative as Hell, and any way he could create, he was going to do it.
Then he met me. In 2001.
He had been unemployed except for temp jobs and working for friends for over two years. He’d been on some dates, as his previous marriage had broken up (they remained friends until the end of his life, mind; one of the true amicable divorces I know about), and none of ’em had panned out. The women he’d met wanted men who made money. Or had a home, as in San Francisco, that denoted wealth. Or at least had a car, as that, too, denoted more than the average amount of wealth, as on-street parking is rarer than hen’s teeth, and on-street parking where you didn’t have to pay anything at all for it is even more difficult to find than that.
He was in his early forties. Distinguished-looking. He didn’t see himself as handsome. He was only middling tall. He used a walking stick (not a cane; call it a shillelagh instead), because of the old double-knee break and the finding of chondromalacia afterward (a type of arthritis; that’s what put him out of the Navy, when they found that). He felt like no woman would ever care about him.
But he met me. And found out he was wrong.
I think, for once in his life, Michael was glad to be proven wrong. (Michael loved being right more than anyone I’ve ever known.) I didn’t care about him not having work at the time, because I knew how hard-working he was, and the more I found out about him, the more intrigued I was. I didn’t care about him not having any money, because I didn’t have any myself. And I did care about him being creative, because I was creative, too…and had been vastly misunderstood, too.
Anyway, I put that in there to try to illustrate why Michael felt there would be no one out there for him.
I wonder, sometimes, if other men feel like this. They aren’t wealthy. They don’t have big houses. They don’t have fancy cars. They don’t have Rolexes, or any status symbol possessions. And our consumer-driven culture makes them think that no one will care, no one at all, unless they have these things…
But being a man is about much more than making money. It’s about caring for others, nurturing them, helping them. It’s about finding out who you are and maximizing your talents. It’s about sacrifice, sometimes. It’s about making choices, and rolling with the punches, and finding your own way through the thicket of what is supposed to be “masculine” behavior. It’s about finding yourself, and working on yourself, and doing whatever you can to do good in this world.
My husband succeeded, as a man.
And I will celebrate that success, all the days of my life.
*****
Anyway, here are the other bloggers this month celebrating International Men’s Day with me; go read their blogs, too, and let them know what you think!
Ipuna Black — International Men’s Day: A Father
Jane Love — A Real Man, Part 1
Mylene Orillo — A Tribute to All the Men in My Life
Sadaf Siddiqi (will be posting later due to family illness)
More Musing About Editing
Most of my life, I’ve worked hard at being a reliable, steady person.
(My family might laugh at this, but it’s the truth.)
A big part of that is embodied by the phrase “finish what you start.” And I try to do that with everything I do, even if it takes me longer as a writer to finish things than I’d like…even if my overall writing process has changed drastically since my late husband died, and I’ve never quite regained my fluidity or facility since.
It’s easier with editing, mind. For whatever reason, my mind goes into a mode there where I can see the story, manipulate the story (or at least ask the author to manipulate it for me), fix what needs fixing, suggest what needs suggesting, and try to do the best job I possibly can for my editorial clients.
Working hard is important. Even if I’m the only one who knows how hard I’m working, I still want to work hard, do everything possible, and make a positive difference in someone’s life. Even if it’s “just” in helping them realize their own artistic vision a little better, with a bit more clarity and sharpness…because these things are important, too.
A good friend, years ago, told me that when I started editing, I’d see manuscripts — even my own — differently. It’s a hard thing to turn off, Editorial Vision (or as I call it, “Editor Voice”), and that can get in the way of my own writing.
Mind, I do appreciate Editor Voice. I can do many things with it that others can’t. Including, of all things, being able to look at a manuscript as if I’ve never seen it before, even if I’ve seen it several times in the past. This ability seems unusual; the other good friends of mine who are editors don’t report having this type of track, though they have other things that work just fine for them.
(I also see, at the same time, what I’ve done, what I want to do, and what the author hopes me to do if I haven’t already figured out a way to do that, which makes it a way of looking at a story in two ways: with great knowledge, and with almost no knowledge. I call it a “dual-level ability.”)
I take what I do seriously. (Maybe too seriously, at times. Though I also try to be humorous when I can…or at least laugh, as life is too short to live it without laughter. Really.) I give everything I’ve got, and then some, toward helping others find their unique voices, and give them (in the buzzword of the moment) “agency.”
I’m glad to do whatever I can to help my clients, most of whom become good friends in the process, tell the best stories they need to tell, in the clearest and most distinct manner they can possibly tell their stories.
And otherwise, when I write? I try to tell myself I don’t have to do everything today. If I get down at least some of what I need, I can add to it tomorrow. Refine it. Maybe reimagine it, if need be…work with what I have, and make it as strong and resilient a story as I can make it. And tell the stories I need to tell, too, so I can say with good grace to clients that I know exactly how they feel, as I, too, have been there. (Been there, done that, bought the T-shirt, etc.)
That’s what I’m thinking about, now, as I continue my journey forward.
Oh, one more thing…next week, I’m going to tell you about the newest anthology I’ve placed a story in. So don’t go anywhere…I’ll have a table of contents, even, to pass around. (Yes, I am a working writer. Thank God/dess.)
What’s going on with y’all? (Tell me in the comments.)
Barb Caffrey's Blog 