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The Thrill is Gone, Baby

I write for a living. This statement still fills me with pride, even though it’s not the kind of writing I daydreamed about during my time as a graduate student. That’s okay – it’s good work, and it pays the bills. But it doesn’t carry the zing it used to for me, back when I was literally amazed that my degrees and mountain of debt would ever actually translate into a job that paid by the year and not by the hour. But doing what you love for a living comes with one major drawback – the thrill is gone. When writing is no longer fun but is actually work, that’s when it becomes something I actively avoid, which is a problem for an aspiring novelist.

I’m an exceptionally lucky person when it comes to support networks. Barry (my boyfriend and constant companion), together with my parents, have always been there for me, with honest critiques and glowing, if biased, praise for my work. It’s helpful to me as a person that all three of them are creative individuals as well. Barry is a writer, a musician, a world traveler, class-A photographer and historian, to name a few. My dad is the next great philosopher, and my mother is an artist. In other words, I am surrounded by great thinkers and doers, each of whom owns a unique perspective on the world. But I am also a procrastinator. When you add that on top on working a crazy schedule, trying to fit in a run here and there, cooking as often as possible instead of eating out and trying to squeeze in a few minutes of QT with Barry or a brief phone call, the day is impossibly short. And after 10 hours of staring at a computer screen, either writing, thinking about writing, editing someone’s writing, or developing a strategic approach to a new writing project, doing the same thing at home sounds about as appealing as getting an unnecessary shot (I’m a needlephobic).

However, I recently did something fairly dramatic (at least, for me): I submitted the first 50 pages of my novel to a novel-in-progress competition. The thought of someone reading my work and hating it makes me want to wilt into a little pool of self-loathing (shout out to my old Prague buddies from 2003 and our communal pit of self-loathing), but in order to make myself get any real growth out of the book, I figured that outing myself in the literary sense was the logical next step. I don’t expect to win, because I know the caliber of writers I’m up against – and the amount of work they’ve undoubtedly sunk into their writing. However, some feedback would be wonderful, but even if nothing happens, my book has made its first sort-of-public excursion into the world, and I have made another baby step toward being a little more creative.

Intro

A 30-something’s quest to instill more creativity in the everyday minutia of life

I consider myself a creative person. I mean, come on, I have two degrees in creative writing. Who needs more proof than that? My boyfriend Barry and I love literature, travel, history, music and art, and our life together reflects that. We enjoy writing, photography and foreign culture. Between the two of us, our house is bursting at the seams with books, CDs and artwork. We try to live life to the fullest and be creative with everything from what we eat for dinner to how we manage our finances and pursue our goals, and to be unique as individuals and as a family. However, since entering the workforce about five years ago, I have found that my personal level of creativity is somewhat diminished. Although I love my job and am proud of my career in public relations, it doesn’t allow for much self-expression. In fact, I often find myself staring at my computer, wishing for inspiration. And the little bit of artistic flourish I’m able to dig up on these occasions doesn’t follow me home or have an impact on my own work – it’s “wasted” on my professional endeavors.

This blog is an attempt to document my clumsy foray into chasing creativity. I’ve resolved to make a conscious effort to become better at enjoying life through expressing myself artistically. However, I am a gold medalist in procrastination, so I will also record my failings as a new and improved human being, whether it’s the fact that I still haven’t touched the canvas and acrylics I bought nearly a month ago, or my novel that’s gone MIA despite my best intentions. And even the worst thing of all – that no matter how much I love to cook, sometimes I just want an order of Jack in the Box curly fries. Period.