The Act Of Creating

I’m surrounded by creators.

That’s been true for several years now, but only recently, after a few years of writing in public have I found the confidence to count myself among them.

I had a moment of clarity just a few weeks ago after an evening spent with my cousin Damon and dear friend Shayna. It was well past midnight as we sat in Damon’s home studio, sipping coffee and eating cookies while listening to a sneak peek of Damon’s new mixtape.

We bobbed our heads to the beat, threw ideas around and talked about our inspirations.

Once the coffee was gone, we’d eaten too many cookies and heard several of the new tracks, it was time to go. But I didn’t want it to end. I was inspired, uplifted and excited.

Their creative energy feeds my own. I need to write like Damon needs to make music and Shayna needs to get lost in a character.

“All of my closest friends are creators,” I said to Shayna as we drove off into the night. “And so are you,” she answered. “Like souls attract like souls.”

And yet, for the past few months, I’ve been stuck. I’ve found myself consuming more than I’m creating and feeling overwhelmed by the pressure to write something better than my Invictus piece, in order to prove that I’ve grown as a writer.  I finished my last story knowing that I need to write, but not quite knowing how. To avoid the sting of failure, I’ve written a little here and there but spent the majority of my free time looking at my options and carefully planning my next steps.

What story will I tell next? Should I venture into fiction? Playwriting? Do I need a MFA degree to further my writing skills? Where will I find new inspiration? How can I build a life around writing?

That night, as I sat around with my friends and fellow creators, a calm washed over me. The answers to my questions were suddenly less important.

The act of creating is what’s important.

Next month marks my 1-year anniversary at the PR agency gig. It would be safe to say that the real world has swallowed me up. With frequent early morning events, long days, night meetings and weekends spent trying to get ahead; I’ve struggled to find the time and energy to write.

It was a choice that made sense in my head, but betrayed my heart, my passion: To take the business route just in case the writing wouldn’t carry me. And I’ve found myself empty and frustrated, filled with the what-ifs and regrets that I’m still young enough to rectify.

I’ve been putting my energy into the wrong places. It took being around my friends, who are busy creating, to realize that.

When I write, opportunities come. When I don’t, I find myself trying to force open closed doors and fretting over logistics.

The truth that hit me in the wee hours of the morning was simple: When I’m in the right space, surrounded by the right people, focused on creating, the answers to the questions will come.

The gift will make a way for itself. 

P.S. Soon, I'll be revamping www.tiffanyholbert.com and making that the new home for my musings, so go ahead and drop that link into your Google Reader :) 

90/90

The end is never quite what I expect it to be. But, we know what they say about expectations.

I’ve been anticipating this end for 90 days. I assumed that there would be this huge exhale, an incredibly satisfying sense of accomplishment, that I’d celebrate somehow, even.

As it turns out, I’m laying in my bed trying desperately not to fall asleep.

It’s not that I’m not excited or proud of this accomplishment, I am. But, the most powerful part of this process happened on some unmarked day along the way.

***

My professor and mentor, Brad, threw down the challenge 90 days ago. 91, actually.

On Day 1, Brad, Megan and I were sitting around drinking coffee, eating blueberry pancakes and talking writing; something we did a few times throughout this journey.

I remember the panic that washed over me when Brad asked if we were in, if we’d commit to writing and publishing every day for 90 days. Here I was sitting with two writers, who in conversation reference writers that I’ve never heard of, let alone read.

Publish every day, I asked back nervously.

I knew it only be a matter of time before I was found out. Words weren’t made for hiding.  

Mine has been an unpursued passion outside of the pages of my journals and unofficial “blogs”.  I’ve toyed with the pursuit many times over, never quite sure how far I could go, choosing to stop before I was crushed and devastated.

***

I didn’t think I could do it.  I thought sure at some point, far before 90/90 that I’d run out of words and creative energy.

And I did, several times. It’s evident in the writing, the peaks and valleys, excitement and misery, assuredness and angst. It’s all there.  Because I kept writing.

I stopped staring at the screen while entertaining my fears and started writing.            

I’ve got no doubt that the crushing devastation will come, sooner rather than later. I expect that.

At which point, I’ll remember the 90 posts in 90 days where I learned that I must write on both the days that I feel like a writer and the days I feel like a fraud. I must write on the days when the words bubble up on the inside and explode on the page and the days that I force them, letter by letter. I must write when I am empty and when I am full.

I must write.

And I assume that this ending is empty because it’s actually a beginning. 

Tiptoeing Around (56/90)

It’s 11:33 P.M., Chicago time on Friday.  I’m sitting at the desk in my hotel room. It is quiet.

I’m writing this in my journal, which I’ve learned to carry at all times, for moments like these. Two of my three roommates for the night are sleeping only a few short steps away from me.

I’m scared to wake them by writing on my laptop, as is my nightly ritual. And these hand written words won’t be typed and published until the morning. Plus, there’s no free wi-fi in the rooms at the Hyatt, and after the long shower I just took to clear my head I don’t feel like leaving the room.

***

It’s been a long, wonderful day. I’ve been up and surrounded by people since 5 A.M.

By the time we were halfway through dinner at Quartinos, passing plates back and forth, I’d reached my Social Output max. That may be a misleading statement because I absolutely love being with interesting people. And today I have been.

But I always reach my limit, and it’s never anything personal. But at some point I always turn inward, my thoughts become heavier and I get quiet.  This happened last night while I was sitting in one of the rooms with 4 or 5 girls sipping wine.

It didn’t help that I was exhausted and full, and drinking. Thankfully though, the mood shift happened gradually today; I started out laughing and singing in the car on the drive to the city and remained pretty excited and social throughout. When we got to dinner though, I began to wind down.

I was beginning to long for a few long moments of solitude. For the writing.

***

It’s 9:22 A.M. Chicago time on Saturday. I’m sitting at Descartes, a coffee shop downtown, sipping a vanilla caramel latte. I’m sitting at the bar looking out the window watching the passerbys.

I found myself stirring in the bed far before everyone else. I slipped out of bed at 7:15, got dressed grabbed my bag, left a quick note on the desk, and headed out.

My friend Hannah just joined me at the café and we will soon be off for breakfast and some exploring.

 “I saw you in the morning, and thought man, you’re serious about this writing thing," she said.

I didn’t set an alarm last night, again for fear of waking the others. But I got up energetically, hit the streets, and found my writing spot.

I may always be apologizing for my need to go off and write; tiptoeing around in the wee hours of the morning, and sneaking out, but this is my life.

I’ve always thought that I was made for the city.

Now I’m starting believe that I was made for this life, too. 

Lists (52/90)

It's 11:30 p.m and I'm sitting in the Cardinal Communications office on campus. I told myself I'd be home by now and in bed by midnight so that I could be rested and recharged come Monday morning.

But, I made a to-do list.

 Actually, I made the same list twice. I threw the first one out because my handwriting was ridiculously sloppy and I knew I'd be annoyed when I looked at it everyday. And now I'm obsessing, playing this game to see how much I can get checked off. I'm curious if I can push my body and mind through the "For Monday" section all the way to the "For Wednesday" section before I surrender to sleep.

 On the bottom of each day's section written in blue is "blog post." Which I went back and added hesitantly after I'd already made the list and started in on the work. Because for me, it just feels wrong putting that on a list. Mixing the sweetness of the thing that I love with the tartness of all the other things that are just necessary.

And then I began to wonder, with worry and anxiety swirling in my belly, if this it what it will be like. Putting love on the bottom of the list, saved as a reward for the end of a day spent doing what will get me from Point A to Point B.

If I'll always feel betrayed by my body as I get overwhelmingly sleepy, just when I've hit my stride and the writing begins to flow.

Of course, I could always put love, this love in particular, on the top of the list. And I have. At the beginning of this challenge when I was trying to find out what works best for me, by way of copying the style and schedule of others, I got up and spent time writing before I set my mind on anything else. What happened, over and over again, is that I'd lose track of time, and spend hours doing what I'd alloted only 30 minutes to an hour for.

My mind would get stuck on the writing. I'd write and re-write and start over. I wouldn't have anything to show for my day, except for the writing, which often times wasn't even worth showing. But that was, and is, okay with me.

It's 12:05 now, and the anxiety in my belly is pushing me to wrap up and make the 40 minute drive home, where I have to get on with the list that will push me through the necessities of tomorrow.

In Anticipation (41/90)

I’m sitting nervously at The Coffee Beanery, a quaint little café in New Tampa, only minutes from my house. And I can’t believe that I’ve never made it here before. It’s a nice spot for writing or studying; there is free WiFi, good coffee and decent looking food that I haven’t the stomach to try today.

My nerves have my stomach knotted in anticipation of the informational interview that I have scheduled at USF today with the graduate director of their Creative Writing program.

And truthfully, I’ve got no reason to be nervous. This is an informational interview, which means I’m not in the hot seat. I’ll be asking some basic questions about the program and their expectations and goals for their students. Logistical stuff, mainly. It’s a practice run for the interview at the top choice school and this particular program is not one I’m even seriously considering just yet.

But for me, it’s more than just an informational interview. It’s another step.

****

We’re nearing the halfway mark in the 90 in 90 challenge now.

To be completely honest, it just keeps getting harder. At this point I’m finding myself constantly searching for inspiration, just a spark to set ablaze a new fire within me. One that is fresh and ferocious and untapped.

I’m searching for some momentum to keep me from the long moments of stillness that break the flow of my writing and replace the rhythm of my fingers pounding on the keys with silence. Which, in this whole process has become more and more unpleasant.

Because creating, anything at all, is hard. Creating consistently is even harder. It is both a struggle and a joy.

And this is the life of a writer, I presume. This is the life that I want more than anything. It is the only thing that I can imagine pouring myself into day after day, for a lifetime.

***

I feel foolish daily. It happens routinely, right about the time that I click “publish”. I know the things that I will hear when I go to that interview: There won’t be room for many. Not everyone is cut out for this life. It is hard, lonely and arduous.

These are the words that I’ve heard over and over again. The words that have kept me from my love for so long.

But, here we are on day 41 and I’m sitting here preparing for an interview at a graduate school. Trying to build a life around my passion for writing.  And I still don’t know if I’m doing it right. Or if I even have the ability to do it right.

But I’m doing it. And I’ll keep doing it.

Because despite the answer, the passion is in the doing. 

Full Of Excitement (17/90)

Today has been an incredibly awesome day! Here's why: Thanks to a lot of help from Brad I've gotten gotten a start on my project for my social media class. And, I've finally got an idea of what kinds of stories I want to tell. Really, this is an awesome day! I'm full of an excitement that my mind can't quite keep up with, which is really a great problem to have. 

So, my writing for today is on that blog on the "About" page.  Take a look around, and don't hesitate to join in the fun! 

This Sucks. A Lot.

I remember now why I write inconsistently, as I have for as long as I can remember. I have several journals, all only half-filled, with months, even years of my life missing. Pages ripped out, in hopes of forgetting memories all too vivid.

And yet, this is all I know to turn to. I'm not a big talker. I'm an observer. A great listener. My creativity limited. Which, in essence, makes the writing more a need instead of a want. I need a release, and this is the only way I know to get it.

  What I hate about it, writing, is that it draws out the characteristics of mine that I've always tried to hide. The sensitivity, earnesty, perceptivity, all of which have always made me feel much older than my years and often misunderstood.

 So I try to find the happy things to write about. To bring some balance. Lighten the mood. But I just end up staring at a blank page. I'm not saying that  I'm not happy, because for the most part, I am. Those that know me know that I love to laugh and make people laugh. But those happy things are expressed easily, daily. It's the horrible, painful, uncomfortable  things, that I can't speak of that burden my soul for expression.

It's weird to write about writing. But it's the only thing on my mind. How hard it is. How freeing it is. How much I need it.  I'm unable to sleep, my body captive to my mind's restlessness.

The problem: I keep trying to make it pretty. I knew better when I titled the blog. It's ugly. And it sucks. But true, and necessary. And as long as I try to clean it up, I remain sleepless, anxious, robbing myself of the cathartic release.

So, no more of that. For freedom's sake. For sanity's sake. For truth's sake.