Creating

One of the things that I've had to come to grips with is my necessity to create. I have -since the dawn of my birth I believe- been a little...odd. A bit different. Just a tad to the right of the normal spectrum. It's taken me a long time to get that this is completely and utterly more than okay. That it's perfect, actually.

I'm part of the spectrum that colors the world, without my particular brand of odd the world would be depleted of an essential color. I'm not trying to boast, I feel that way about everyone else, too.

A huge part of me -something that colors my world- is the need to Make. When I was a girl I loved to draw, sketch, and paint. I fancied myself an artist. I let my turmoltuous teenaged feelings tumble out into pages in poetry and journaling. I wanted to be a writer. When I was a bit older I got a sewing machine and made halloween costumes and small things like pillows and curtains. I still dabbled in paint but grew self concious of the effort.

It occoured to me, I have no skill. I have no professional training in any of these ventures and my self confidence depleted further. So, I packed away the machines, the papers and the paints. I stowed away a part of myself that I felt too inept to develop. To scared to release. I made excuses; I have no time, I'm a mother now, I'm tired, I don't need to. The joy and excitement I felt in creating seeped away as I lied to myself.

Every once in a while I'd pull something out, when the need to create overpowered me and took control. A project I wanted to work on or grab a notebook and start randomly typing thoughts or ideas. One thing I've leared is to go with it, your heart won't stand to be denied forever, your soul won't sit back and let itself whittle away. These urges had me trying my hand at a myriad of creative outlets; music, sewing, knitting, singing, photography, writing. Anything and everything and still the list goes on. Over the past two years I've going back and forth from a whirlwind of creation to packing it up again disappointed as I let the excuses ebb in, telling myself, as I gave away supplies or deleted stories, that "It's for the best." though it didn't feel like that at the time. It still doesn't feel that way. Actually, it feels quite bad.

One of my problems, that I heartily recognize -though have no clue to master- is my personal disappointment that I'm not good enough. Its easy for me to fall back on those inner demons that tell me I'll "never be as good/smart/interesting/pretty/important as...". With the abuse I suffered as a child, it's hard for me to see what I make is of worth. Even if its only worthy to me. My world is was once colorless, a dull blank canvas where there was no hope of ever seeing a drop of color except for the bleak greys and forboding blacks of the shadows that haunted me.

Creating helped me to keep my spark during those troubled times but my heart and head have a hard time allowing me to show others since it had been beat into me that I had no worth, nothing about me was meritus, special or important. How could anything be that way that I made? I secreted away my creations to avoid ridicule, while unknowling keeping that slice of me alive.

Though something inside me now shouts to share these little things I create with the world. I want to bring the joy I feel to others but I have a hard time accepting criticism and have only recently tried sharing some of my writing with people online. I've started gifting my quilts to wee babies I know. I'm looking at joining a writing group, with real people in my area. I want to bring hapiness and interest to other people, put a drop of color to their canvas.

I suppose the point to all of this is that, even though, I'm not -nor probably will ever be- very, very good at one thing, I'm working on being true to myself and those parts of me that were never fully accepted by others. The parts that make me a little zany, a tad morbid, a bit uncouth, quite sarcastic and a whole lot open and in love with the spectrum of the world and my place in it.

Werks in progress

My NaNo novel is finished but I'm taking a break from it before delving into the editing process. Possibly, even until February. I know it has huge gaping plot holes and wild inconsistencies. I'm not really ready to explore them yet. I will though. I promise. As added incentive a company will publish one softcover of my novel free as a NaNoWriMo winner if I get it to them by June. That's some incentive.

I'm considering finalizing it and sending it out to a friend to read and having them pass it along to others where people can possibly send a note along with it, adding to the note for everyone to read with their thoughts and finally, at some point getting it back to me with all the feedback and the crazy path of it's passing.

That would be some chain letter. Though the anticipation might kill me.

I'm working on another story, it is currently actually TWO stories centered around the same group of people...er, vampires. Katrina and Davis in one, Cooper and Cassidy in another. There are a few other story lines tumbling around in my head to go with this. So far they only make up about 9k words between the two but it's a start. This was a story that my muse threw my way in the middle of NaNo and now that I know I can finish a novel, I'm excited to see where this leads.

I have two short stories up on Scribd. Both have a combined read of almost 200 which both scares and excites me. I also have 2 subscribers which is humbling. Someone (actually sometwo) want to know when I write something new. Wow. There is another story centering around an elevator, hiding away in the corner of my mind which will probably get up there on Scribd as soon as it introduces itself to me. It's a love affair story so they must just be being discrete. I might poke them later to see what they have to say.

I'm considering trying out Script Frenzy in 190 days but I have a feeling it might be out of my range. Learning how to novel write is still on the front burner. So, there you have it. Lots of new stuff churning in my brain, slowly making its way through my hands to tap on the keys and get delivered to you.

My greatest wish for writing is to create a product others can enjoy. I hope I can do that for you. And I hope I don't disappoint.

Following artistic callings

So today's posting is just something I've been pondering for awhile and thought I'd share. I've been thinking about artists. What makes people artists?

I know from my own personal experience that creating things is just part of who I am. I have to have an outlet. Whether or not I excel at that art is moot. I just have to follow what I've been inspired to do. No matter the time or place. Many times I'll just seek out a pen and paper to put down what has attacked my brain and maybe later I'll look it at and develop it. I've been known to wake up at night to jot down a stanza or idea or sketch something out. That's when the muse just happens to throw me an idea. Other times, it's a full out compulsion, hours upon hours are spent on these thoughts and time slips by me unawares.

I've dabbled in painting, sewing, fiber arts, sketching, writing, and cooking. Some I've excelled at and continued, others just mediocre, a passing fancy. When the feeling hits me that I have to, that tiny spark of creation is inside me, I have to let it out. It's almost a compulsion. If I don't have the ability to create when I need or want to I actually feel emotionally bad. I'm irritable and cranky.

I wonder if this is how it is for others? Does a muse overcome them and practically force creativity to flow through them? Does an artist have to have angst to create? I seem to feel most creative when I have turmoil in my life. The plethora of drawing and painting and poetry I did as a teen was my most artistically productive and most emotionally scarred time so far in my life (so far). While all of the paintings are gone, I do still have some of the works of poetry and drawings. Looking back, it seems almost like a completely different person did it, though I do remember with painful clarity the exact times I composed some of those writings.

Maybe that's what I felt the compulsion to do; to form a portal on paper to a world I left behind. Even if at the time I had no realization that was what I was doing. When I look back now, I remember things about my situation and surroundings with more clarity than I had being in it at the time. I am able to sort out my responsibility in what happened and know that I survived that life and was able to forge a new one.

Though I've been able to create art through love, most of those things have been specific for a certain person, mostly my children. Those times they have been my muses and I revel not in the relief of creation but from the happiness I create for them with my art. It's a different muse that directs those crafts. These types I can pick up and put down at my leisure. Still sating the need for creativity, but not the hot, firey compulsion that sometimes hits me. I wonder if that's the same for others?

A few weeks ago, a muse threw at me the plot for a story, enveloping some of my own experiences into the mix. It happened at about ten one night and I've been called back to that muse many times over, spending hours and hours at the computer writing into the wee part of the night. Whether or not the story is any good, if anyone else would want to read it isn't the most important part, though I would like to share my art with others, it's just the act of creation.

So to those of you out there that have a desire or even a raw need to create, I ask you, where does your inspiration come from?

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