I wish I felt like a writer right now. There are so many things happening in the world that move me, a long line of people whose stories I believe would heal your heart and open your mind, but I just can’t find the words. I think it might be the pineapple shortage.
They tell me that this is what happens with us creative types. Even typing that makes my stomach flip flop, which — now that I mention it — isn’t so much of a surprise either. “They” also tell me that, at least in the beginning, we creative types are pretty uncomfortable with even declaring ourselves creative.
The bitching part of this whole deal is that, at least it seems to me, our willingness to discover and accept our identity as creative beings directly impacts the success of our creative endeavors. If we can’t own it, we can’t rock it.
It would be so much easier to be masterful at our craft if the success came strong, early, and consistent. Of course it would, but then what kind of world would we live in? The best-seller lists would be watered down with books written by people whose lives haven’t yet helped them understand the value of digging deeper, surrendering to the story, and — for the love of all things glittery — editing.
There would be a spinoff of that Hoarders show where the experts and dump trucks descend on museums filled beyond capacity with the first photographs, drawings, and paintings of creative types who retired in the rookie season and never went on to master their craft. Already the music world is sort of upside down — if you don’t yet know about the music world outside of top 40 radio, then you’re missing out — but imagine how much worse it could get if the journey of the creative ones didn’t have this element!
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