Creativity As Joy

I spent the better part of a decade working in different aspects of advertising, and in each of those jobs, the positions themselves were not considered creative. So much so that at the last one, it took years and some quite loud vocalization to be invited to brainstorm meetings in my own department, and the few ideas I was able to get into the hands of the She-Devil-In-Charge would be regularly shat upon out-of-hand. I would even be told on a very regular basis I was not just "not a creative," but, "Laura, YOU're not creative."

Don't feel sorry for me because of someone else's words, but instead, kick my ass for believing it.

That's right. I spent ten years believing I am not creative.

I believed it so much it became a part of me. I told myself the same thing, in agreement with the theme, over and over ... and I’ll be dipped if it didn’t become my narrative.

Then something interesting happened.

I got laid off.

Bored, I started pushing my creativity in tiny ways.

I wrote.

I consulted.

I brainstormed.

And people paid me to do it.

"Well, up YOURS, lady-who-fed-me-the-non-creative-line-every-damned-day-of-my-life," I started to think on a daily basis.

Then I let myself get really mad.

I stayed mad for a few more years. (You know, 'cause we have nothing but time to fritter away being mad. What can I say? On occasion, I’ve been known to be a total dumb ass myself.)

At some point, I noticed that the closest of my friends were spending the vast majority of their spare time in creative pursuits—in three instances with jaw-dropping, life-altering outcomes.

This boggled my mind. The people I spent the majority of my time with were expressing themselves in fresh, fearless, very public ways—and I was spending my spare time playing Tetris on my aged GameBoy.

Clearly, change needed to occur.

I started blogging in earnest.

I realized after a bit blogging was a little too personal. I wasn't ready to really open 'er up, and at the time, I felt like I needed to. (Lucky for you, I now realize sharing is a choice, not a directive.)

I got a camera to hide behind.

Another blog was born: 365 Snapshots.

I started ranking on Google.

I had followers from other countries.

I spent hours enthusiastically pouring over concepts, locations, and shots.

Amongst all of this, life got serious and financial security won out: I got a W2 job.

Suddenly it was more like 195 Snapshots.

Photography is fun, but the process of lighting, aperture, filigree, pedigree and whatever other bed knobs and broomsticks mumbo-jumbo that goes into a great shot proved to be much too tiring to do daily, especially whilst holding down a job I dug. (Further, taking 75 photos in a day and going through those 75 photos is a crevasse I dared not look down while crossing.)

Right around this time, my (now-ex) husband started a little shop in our basement, creating wooden frames out of reclaimed wood. They had palpable honesty to them. They were beautiful. They were artful.

I was inspired.

One day, on the drive home from a visit to one of the friend’s eco-conscious, up-cycle, kick-ass store, I had a vision. It was a wooden bookmark, wafer-thin and engraved with witty sayings, or perhaps just sanded silky-smooth and sealed.

Bad Diddy was born.

I was making bookmarks from the scraps of reclaimed wood the husband had laying around. Signs came next. I LOVED it. Best of all, I realized I was no longer mad.

It came to me that in order to push myself into doing something that's really and truly an expression of myself—rather than a mere reflection of the world around me—I had to get mad. I had to look it over, turning the anger in my hands, inspecting it from every angle … sort of like a Rubik’s Cube.

One night, as I was Dremeling my little heart out and mentally solving the creativity Rubik’s Cube, I was working my way through four specific angles of examination: where the anger came from, what cranked it to eleven, what shut it down, and what kept it going.

And I realized that for me, it was about belief. Faith, even.

Faith that I was created to create—and if this was the one abiding tenet, then my marching orders were clear: wade in, dummy!

I also realized that I never stopped being creative.

Every time I've ever been witty, every word I've ever written, any time I've ever handwritten a card in cursive, or any time I've ever "Weird Al'd" a song ... that was creativity.

If we factor in the new and exciting ways to curse, well, hell on an Arbor Day-flavored biscuit; we're talking non-stop crea-freakin'-tivity.

Which got me thinking about where and why my beliefs regarding my own innate creativity went askew.

For me, I believe it was maybe just a lack of communication or clarification along the way. I don't know that among my younger years as a part of my family-of-origin, where we were just trying to survive … to make sure everybody made it through the day in one piece … not a ton of importance was placed on creating anything.

That's not to say we weren't allowed to make things. We certainly were. If we asked, we were told we could bake, sew, paint, and draw to our hearts' content. My older sister danced. I have a very specific memory of my younger sister making all sorts of things with Popsicle sticks, glitter, and muffin liners. (Party hat for a very accommodating feline, anyone?)

I don’t think being artistic or creative was pushed because things like eating, getting to school, and being kind to one another were of greater importance in our day-to-day. Of course, it could be that I am a middle child and need constant reassurance. (Trust me when I say: this is the part where you feel sorry for my ex- as well as my current-and-forever husband.)

All of this pondering my childhood made me think about one of the little girls in my life, a niece, B.

She has wonderful parents. Attentive, encouraging, loving. That kid is never going to think she's incapable of doing anything because of those two.

But what if?

What if, as little girls, we all had a front-and-center daily reminder that could grow with us as we became women?

Another idea was born.

Joyously, I grabbed my camera and ran to my backyard to get a close-up of our bright pink blooming peonies. With the best shot, a frame from the basement woodshop, and a vinyl print from my local digital printer, I made B. a gallery wrap to hang on her bedroom wall.

Something I hoped she would read every single day of her life.

Something I hoped she would hang up when she gets her own place as an adult.

With words she holds to her heart when someone dares to lie to her face and attempts to tell her she is less than.

She couldn’t read yet, but I got to see her face when the words were read aloud to her.

With each line, I got to see her take in each idea and test it to her heart, her smile deepening each time.

With the knowledge that she is beautiful.

Smart.

Creative.

Capable.

Special.

Loved.

Just as through my own journey of creativity, I am beautiful.

Smart.

Creative.

Capable.

Special.

Loved.

… as are you.

Joyously so.

(originally posted in 2012 at one of my many over-the-years blogs, updated for Vocal.media 2021)