188. The Creative Contract
Photo by Kate Sterlin.
When it comes to a creative practice, we all have our own particular blocks—those shadow tendencies that emerge and prevent us from plowing forward.
When it comes to a creative practice, we all have our own particular blocks—those shadow tendencies that emerge and prevent us from plowing forward. For some, it’s external obligations and distractions, for others the internal voice that says, “You’re not good enough.” For all of us, these dang smartphones, forever within arm’s reach, forever full of time-obliterating distractions!
Famous artists of all kinds have faced creative blocks. There’s Georgia O’Keefe, fearing failure and preoccupied by troubles in her marriage, struggling to make progress on a mural at Radio City Music Hall. There’s Ludwig von Beethoven in a seven-year fallow period that historians attribute to illness, frustration with his loss of hearing, and legal woes. There’s Ralph Ellison, who after publishing The Invisible Man spent more than four decades writing and rewriting his second novel, which he hoped would champion a Black aesthetic and rival Moby Dick. It was a tall order, and it saddled him with what he called “writer’s block as big as the Ritz.”
These examples resonate with me, as my own creative blocks sprout from similar seeds. I’ll procrastinate—my kitchen is never cleaner than when I’m on deadline—putting off my hardest task until the afternoon, even though I know the limitations of my body and my energy levels, and with each passing hour, it’s diminishing returns. Or I go back and reread what I’ve written and immediately start self-flagellating and self-criticizing, to the point that I can’t move forward. Then there’s the biggest hurdle I create for myself: being unrealistic with my expectations. I’ll set an overly ambitious goal, one that’s unsustainable and becomes exhausting, something I dread. Suddenly, it’s taking everything out of me to keep doing it, but I don’t want to go back on the commitment I’ve made. I feel trapped.
Over time, I have learned to anticipate these pitfalls—to confront them, to interrogate them, to tend to them. I’ve come up with mechanisms and solutions for when my creative low point arrives—because inevitably it will. For my first 100-day project, I had three firm rules:
Write every day, first thing in the morning.
Write any amount (even just one word).
Don’t re-read what you wrote or show it to anyone else.
Recently, I’ve been focusing on watercolors, and it’s been a little different. What keeps me coming back is a new trick I’ve devised: I call it a day when I have a clear sense of what I want to do next, or when I’m excited about painting a particular detail—the wing of a bird, or a lemon tree, or a beautiful tropical leaf. It makes me look forward to returning to the canvas. I think of it as a gift for tomorrow’s self. I’ve also been thinking about what I want to feel after I’ve finished painting for the day, and making that my goal, rather than fixating on output. I want to feel joyous and playful, even a little feral, and liberated.
So with all that in mind, I’m drafting a creative contract for myself as I enter into a new 100-day project. So far, this is what I’ve got:
I will paint every day, no matter how much or how long.
I will leave a gift on the canvas for tomorrow’s self.
My goals are wildness, playfulness, and liberation.
Prompt:
Make a creative contract with yourself:
List your blocks—like consistency, crushing expectations, self-discipline, or self-doubt. Name them, interrogate them, and make a plan to tend to them.
List the things that will keep you coming back: A low bar to entry? An accountability buddy? A set routine?
Rather than setting a goal, set a mood intention for how you want to feel while in the creative process.
Consider adding a pep talk for when you find yourself at a creative low point.