Creation is violent. We're going to have to expose our not-ready-yet-selves and wrestle doubts we've harbored since childhood and edit away our unfortunate first drafts. If we do it right, we're going to make some enemies. Mostly we have to fight our own angsty tantrums when we're not quite sure what to do next.
But we always know what to do next. We're just burrowed underneath a layer of bullshit that we haven't pushed through yet. We shroud ourselves with delicate self-sabotage in order to not look like a fool, not make a mistake, not piss anyone off. So we pretend we don't know what to do next, but we always do.
We're just scared to let our voice be loud enough to do it.
It nestles under our more acceptable desires for affluence and certainty. We act like we want the fame and fortune because who wouldn't, but the creative act rides out that particularly juvenile lie and stays with us as we put our heads down on the pillow, up until the very last time we do it.
Creatives piss off non-creatives.
Everyone is creative, but to the ones who'd rather stay dormant, the ones who stay awake offend. We can be sure of nothing in life except that when we make something, create a community, go out on a limb, speak our truth, our critics are fighting their own self-loathing for not having done anything quite so bold.
Creative people don't have time to criticize. There's work to be done.
The creative will fail. Most of the time. In embarrassing and public ways. The creative knows that this is part of apprenticing yourself to life and if you want to make anything worthwhile, you have to be a student of it.
Every creative act transforms the maker.
We stop because we're afraid once we transform we can never go back. And we're right. We dive into a polluted sea of uncertainty because our creative gills need to breathe, no matter how thick the atmosphere. No matter how rough the waters. So our land selves, the ones stuck on shore, the ones stuck in ruts and lies and jobs that mean nothing, they die. They collapse under the weight of pursuit. They shrivel until they disintegrate, no longer recognizable.
And what's left is our bravest part.
What's left is nothing to lose.
What's left is the life we wanted to live.