SC Andrews

Not those creation myths.

I began a new document today, one for a new book, so I can query multiple titles at once. It’s not the ideal order I wanted to do things but there is an intersection between idealism and pragmatism that contains a paycheck. In between sentences of this other book, or during the trek upstairs to go to the bathroom (they should just call the testosterone blocker a pee pill) I was thinking about this post. About how the people in my life who taught me how to be creative shrouded the entire process in mysticism and awe, and how I’ve had to unlearn that over time.

Creation is messy. Look at how babies are made. It’s gross. You take disparate materials and smash them together and hope you get something that calls you once they move out. If you wait for a muse, wait for divine intervention, or whatever it is you think you need to create you’ll really stifle yourself. A schedule might take out some of the romance but you’ll get the job done.

This isn’t the first time I’ve tried to be a real creative, one that gets paid and doesn’t have to interact with people in real life daily. When I was 19-20 I was working at a restaurant – a well known chain that sold artery clogging biscuits and other stuff – and I often worked a shift up front that involved sitting at a podium for hours with absolutely nothing to do. A normal person might have socialized with their co-workers more but I was really young for that particular location, didn’t drink(yet), didn’t smoke(yet), and was engaged to be married like a weirdo. I would not have talked to me either. Instead I jotted down a book idea on discarded menus. I read voraciously, on the bus, at school, at home, far more than I do now, and I wanted to make something of my own.

If we go back even further I tried to write a book when I was a freshman in high school, as well as a few attempts during middle school. Every time I would just get caught up in the mystery of the world building (I want to try and articulate why I don’t like the phrase ‘world building’ in another post but I don’t have the words for it now), and then I’d wait for my muse to come kiss me with tongue and just write the book for me.If it’s not obvious, that doesn’t work. It gets repeated in every single post about every single creative endeavor but still requires reminding: you have to do the work. You might get lucky and write a book in a weekend but good luck bottling that particular lightning bolt.

With all of that said, how you should art a lot, I have learned that there is a caveat in my own process. I have a lot going on in the ol’ brain department, fel moods, and sometimes the bleakness overtakes. I’d say most creatives do, but that’s counterproductive to the narrative, and also feeds into the myth that you need a mental illness to create something profound. Art is made in direct opposition and in spite of depression or anxiety or whatever else you might think is ‘writer’s fuel’. I can only speak of my own experiences –

OK, I need to say this to myself because I’m getting sick of repeating it. Feel free to skip this paragraph cause it’s just for Sam. I have never been comfortable pretending that I’m an expert on any subject – probably should’ve been a big hint that being a man just wasn’t for me. I feel a constant need to amend that my opinions are anecdotal, that this only based on my observation, etc. Let’s just assume, for my sake and growth, that everything I say is anecdotal and leave it at that. It’s a personal essay, not a research paper.

Anyway, I have come to realize that I can only bully myself into productivity so far before there’s significant and destructive push back. Last year when I started down this path I wrote my first book in a relatively short period of time, demanding a page count or word count of myself every single day. It worked and I got something I was proud of. I was amazed, this is what they said to do and it worked! Maybe they were right about exercising too. We’ll never know. The problem came when I tried to continue the process. There’s an ebb and flow to my creativity that I’ve never really had to contend with before. It wasn’t just about waiting for my muse it was that my mind and body were physically fighting me back and telling me its time to take a break. Instead of listening to what my body was telling me (a huge theme in my life) I pushed and pushed until I broke. I got sick, I lost motivation, and then I started procrastinating. I’ll work on it next week, I’ll work on it once we’ve finished moving, I’ll work on it in spring cause I won’t be as depressed(ha).

Finally I forged on and finished the second book, getting my groove back and completing it relatively quickly once I sat down at got to work. Does anyone want to guess what I did afterwards?

In my defense, shortly upon completion of the second book I realized I could no longer just pretend I was really good at writing women because I was observant or something. I needed time to begin transitioning into the person I wanted to be, and that meant putting writing aside for a bit. But, up until the moment I committed myself to coming out, I was still pushing myself to keep writing at the same pace, and I was rebelling.

Creation is hard. It’s fun. It’s work. The gods are capricious and the flesh is weak. There has never been a better time to learn something new, or try something new with the resources we have at our disposal but that also means a mountain of distractions. I’ve been tempted to write at a computer without internet access before but then how would I google a word I already know to make sure that I’m using it right? My creativity is kin to a child where creation storms and surges, it requires discipline but push too hard and then they end up writing blog posts at 35 instead of being gainfully employed.

-Sam

-P.S. I used to think P.S. stood for Postal Service and it was a note special for the mailman who definitely read all your letters.