22.
It was 2 days before Christmas when I got the call. It was an emergency. They needed Easter bonnets. They needed them within the week. In New York.
Did I mention it was 2 days before Christmas? On Christmas Eve their contribution to the project arrived: they sent paper napkins they wanted me to use, and I was to supplement with tissue paper. It was inconvenient, a ridiculous sounding project, and downright inconsiderate. I couldn't say no, because I needed the money. And the job. And more importantly, the one after that.
When I went to work on the project December 26th, I was not feeling inspired. I had a houseful of Christmas staring at me. I had children out of school. It was December in Minnesota, which is the very opposite of springtime. And I didn't have the faintest idea how I was going to make Easter bonnets out of paper napkins.
But the resulting photo shoot ended up yielding one of my favorite magazine photos. I took those paper napkins and I somehow managed to make a little magic. To this day I have no idea how it happened.
I'm telling you that because I want to illustrate why it's worth saying yes to something like a creativity challenge. The value of it is that basically, it gives you a job, and you show up to do it. I know, you probably already do that every day. But the catch is that this job requires you to pull something out of thin air. Every day you have to tune into something--in the world around you, or inside yourself--and use it to make something else. Simple alchemy. Cold fusion. Magic. None of which really exist, and that's just how possible it feels some days.
And you do it anyway.
Anyone who has done creative work as work knows what I mean. If you haven't been privileged to experience that (excruciating/wonderful) life, then you're probably like everyone else who wonders, "Where do you get your ideas?"
And says, "I have to wait to be inspired before I make/write/create something."
Or, "I can't think of anything I want to paint/sculpt/design."
And having worked as a designer against hard deadlines for years, I can tell you: you just show up. You show up to work, and the project will meet you. You might have to look around until you recognize it. You might have to eavesdrop on the elderly couple at the table next to you reminiscing about their old Pontiac, but that's okay because it will remind you of your old Pontiac. Which magically reminds you of what you showed up to do.
You might have to make 63 false starts. You might have to sort the piles on your desk. You might have to look at a magazine, or read someone else's beautiful words, or look at something you've already written. You might have to romance it a bit, buy your idea dinner.
You might have to break the seal on the page somehow, before you can get inside. For instance, you may have noticed that every day I type, "30 days, 30 pages with writing on them. That's the deal," at the top of the page, and follow it up with a number. I do it because once I've typed those words, I've already started.
You might have to type the word Nothing 725 times on a Tuesday morning before the next word in the sentence magically comes out of your fingers, but it will. And word 726 will be gold. By Tuesday afternoon, you'll have accomplished the impossible.
It will happen eventually if you just show up.
Erma Bombeck talked of "snow blindness" from staring at the blank page. I've had it. I've had it in the past week. In fact, the worst case occurred on Day 14, when I ended up writing what has also been my favorite piece from this challenge. Every single word was digging out a sliver with a dull needle. That's how much fun writing that piece was.
But what exquisite pain! I wouldn't trade it for anything. It made my brain hurt, and I don't often work my brain hard enough to make it feel like that. I'm lazy, when it comes to working my brain.
I've noticed my brain got pretty excited from that exercise. It's been standing by the door with its leash ever since, staring at me with those eyes. It wants to be allowed to run again.
Speaking of which, I've been a runner for about 15 years. When I'm on a run, after I've hit the wall and run past it, I feel strong. And that is unbelievable: Me, being strong. Because I spend most of my life feeling weak.
I love the feeling of moving under my own power. I love the feeling of being a tiny speck under an enormous sky. When I run, I feel like I'm doing something that not everyone can do, and it is something I earned through really hard work that always begins by putting on my shoes and showing up.
Running also puts me in the zone more reliably than anything else, for my creative work. And I think that's precisely because it is so hard for me, but I push past that. And I do it again, and again, and again. Every run is to prove to myself that I can.
When I run, it is just me and what I can do. My thoughts are only mine. My breath belongs to me. The music belongs to me. The pain belongs to me. The euphoria belongs to me, because I made it. It is my world, and I create it for myself.
I did a 365 day challenge a few years ago, in which I did a drawing every day. Right in the middle somewhere is a big chunk of goofy drawings I had to do with the wrong hand, because I had arm surgery. Those drawings are even worse than the ones I did every other day of the challenge with my right (meaning left) hand. They're worthless. But they're also some of my favorites, and that's because of what they represent.
They're me saying "I can do this thing." And then having proof that I did...even with one hand tied behind my back.
Creativity is not alchemy or fusion or magic. Creativity is not even a talent. Creativity is only a habit. Mostly, it involves paying attention, then thinking about, then doing something as a result. Sometimes things just flow, most times they don't. But if you keep showing up for work, eventually you're going to end up with a job. And whether or not it turns into anything worth keeping doesn't matter at all, because 99% of creating is for the creator. If we get lucky, the 1% we're privileged to share is just icing on the cake.
Trust me. Get your shoes. Your brain wants to go.