Since getting my book deal, I’ve felt this flood of creativity. Sparks of so many different ideas and not just for new stories but multimedia projects, creative giving, and new collaborations It’s like this very public validation has somehow given me permission to explore other aspects of my creative identity and I’ve found myself, a few times, being struck by an idea so big and scary that it I know it’s my heart’s desire.
I’ve spent the past four months trying to untangle my intuition from my anxiety; trying to see which fears signal that I’m actually moving closer to my goals and therefore should keep moving in that direction. But it’s hard. I’ve made so much progress. I’ve had so many setbacks. This journey of becoming is not a straight line and sometimes I worry that I’ll be stumbling the entire way.
And it feels so familiar, this hesitancy. This apprehension about what comes next. About all of the ways I might screw it up. But hasn’t writing, more than anything else, taught me that the only way to make something is just to begin.
A lot of the ideas I’ve had are in a completely different medium than the one I’m used to working in. They require me to be creative in a completely new way. To learn new skills. To reach out to strangers in order to build relationships, to ask for help. And the first thing my brain wants to do is worry and tell myself terrible stories about how it could all go wrong.
But hasn’t writing taught me that too? That failure is part of the process. A necessary part of the process. One that no forward motion can be achieved without.
So I’m going to stop waiting for the right time. I’m going to stop waiting to be ready. There is no ready. No perfect circumstances under which to create. All creativity requires a bit of risk-taking. It’s the part of the process that makes me feel alive. That’s like being struck by lightning, every dream and desire illuminated from the inside.
I want to coax out those tiny flames, letting them grow. Even if I get burned in the process.