The death of the creative soul is a slow and quiet one, something akin perhaps to taking a few sleeping pills, chased by a shallow glass of room-temperature whiskey, and then again a few more sleeping pills—all in the form of bills, errands, obligation, deadlines, chores, etc. It’s the kind of death that makes an otherwise cheerful person open a blog post with a morose metaphor likening daily life to suicide. And it’s a death I feel newly awakened to.
Evenings I once spent trying my amateur hand at watercolor painting, choreographing contemporary dances with friends, reading about and discussing theories of creativity, and actually writing for myself have morphed into evenings spent on Netflix and … wait, no, that’s about it.
Okay, I do also have a social life that mostly consists of eating, drinking, and playing trivia.
But: I am creatively unfulfilled—and very, very melodramatic about it, as I think a creative soul is wont to be.
I have failed, as Woody Allen and Julia Cameron urge creative, to just show up. I have come to look at creative endeavors as a luxury, or as producer Jen Lee put it, “the dessert we’ll treat ourselves to if we first finish the vegetables of our ‘real work’ or chores.”
My blogging began as an attempt to awaken to the world around me and often housed remnants of my creative discoveries. With more than a year since my last post, it’s fair to say life has gotten in the way of that. So I’ve invited myself, and my [few] readers, on a journey to rediscover that creative soul, to reposition the act of creation as a central source of my energy. Rather than dying in slow motion, I’ve invited myself to start showing up.