42. Creative Injuries – Stacie Orrico
My noisy life has quieted to a whisper, and I am left with this truth: I don’t create because I am scared.
Being in quarantine has revealed to me that many of my reasons for not creating are simply made up. Jobs are canceled, social plans are gone and my kids’ activities have been wiped out through the summer. (Save me!) My noisy life has quieted to a whisper, and I am left with this truth: I don’t create because I am scared.
It wasn’t always this way. As far back as I can recall, I was singing, dancing, telling stories, and conjuring up other worlds. Growing up, my home was filled with music, and I spent Sundays singing in church. To sing was to feel my imagination and my body merge. Then, right around the time I started wearing a bra, I got a record deal, and I started touring the world and sold a lot of albums. I was even nominated for a Grammy and got some plaques for the wall.
But the thing is—rather than displaying those plaques, I hid them in the closet, mostly because I felt like a fraud. I was singing music that wasnʼt my own, speaking with authority about things that I had not yet lived, and publicly playing nice with people who were devouring me.
I could feel the joy of music draining out of me. It was like a hundred people had dragged their chairs into my magical creative room and sat down with their opinions, suggestions, and critiques. By the time I was in my early twenties, my anxiety and depression had so swallowed me that I finally told my label I was done.
It took me a long time to get my voice back. And still, even today, those people in the chairs with their opinions reappear. Sometimes I hear them as annoying little jabs, like when I’m singing silly songs at the piano with my kids and think, “You should really be teaching them something more soulful or sophisticated.” Other times the voices are more insistent. They tell me that I am not articulate enough. That I wonʼt be able to finish what I start. That there are a million other people out there who are better, wiser, more qualified. Just like that, the joy of the creative moment goes soggy.
These voices are hell to listen to, but what I have learned is that what they are saying is not actually true. These are just the voices that have crept uninvited into my sacred creative space and I need to show them the door.
– Stacie Orrico
Prompt:
Close your eyes and imagine the last time you tried to create. Who appeared? What did you hear? Maybe it was a critical parent, a competitive classmate, a teacher’s thoughtless remark, or a line from a rejection letter. Maybe it was a voice of unknown origin that you hear on loop: it’s too late, you’re not good enough, you’ll never get there. Write an eviction notice to whomever or whatever hinders your creative joy. Name them. Call them on their bull. Firmly usher them out the door. Once they’re gone, if you notice a difference in the space, write about the change.
Abby Alten Schwartz
Location: Lansdale, Pennsylvania
About: This prompt was close to my heart because of so much of my identity centers around creativity, both art or writing. I've had some creative blocks surrounding art and writing about them was a powerful way to start chipping away at them.
Age: 53
Hey, you—Subconscious. I’m onto you. You are being veeerrrry subtle, like a little kid antagonizing her younger sibling just enough to get them to cry but not enough to attract your mom’s attention. I see what you are doing and I’m warning you to knock it off.
I used to lose myself in making art. From the time I could grasp a crayon, all through high school and college, it was a huge part of my life and my identity. Maybe I should rephrase that. I used to find myself in making art. Yes, that sounds about right. And while I’ve started picking it up again recently, I still have mental blocks that get in the way of my diving in more frequently with abandon. These hurdles are self-induced. Let’s unpack them here and be done with them once and for all. Okay?
“Not good enough.” This idea took hold in college. I got into Tyler School of Art, one of the top art schools in the country. When I took a four-hour drawing class, I realized that there are people who draw so much better than me. Once I started comparing, I lost my confidence and disliked any class that involved drawing, illustrating or anything purely fine art.
I excelled in classes that emphasized conceptual thinking. In hindsight this tracks with my love of writing. I loved (and still do) graphic design and typography. But after that drawing class, I never did allow myself the pure pleasure of drawing and allowing myself to be “bad” at it until I got better. The truth is, I can draw. I’m just not the best at it, which, now that I think about it, seems like such a silly reason to not do something. (Hmmm, this prompt seems to be working its magic already…)
“But it’s not billable.” I’m self-employed as a designer, copywriter and marketing consultant specializing in healthcare and hospital communications. The majority of my workday is spent on billable work. That mentality hinders me when it comes to sitting down and creating art for art’s sake. I feel guilty spending time on something that won’t yield a return other than pleasure. Again, seeing this in writing is jarring. I don’t feel that way about reading or creative writing or knitting (okay, knitting does yield actual finished pieces).
The thing is, if anyone I cared about held back doing something they loved just because it didn’t bring in money or seem productive to them, I would tell them they were thinking about it all wrong. I would say: if you enjoy it, there is value in it. Are you learning? Growing? Expanding in some way? There’s value in that. Are you finding it relaxing? Fun? Does it reduce anxiety and help you achieve a more meditative, mindful state of mind? That’s wonderful! Run to it!
Um…I seem to have run out of excuses. That was fast. I’m smiling as I write this. Very sly of you, Stacie Orrico. I’m impressed.
Barclay Ann Blankenship
Location: North Carolina
About: I graduated from college this year. I know, yikes, right? There were already a lot of fears I had been experiencing as a normal soon-to-be graduate, like the reality of being a real adult, without the added fears of a worldwide pandemic. I realized quickly, admits all of the amplified fears around me, that I had been letting fear overwhelm me and my creative choices long before the chaos of 2020 erupted. When reading this prompt, the first thing that came to my mind was the fear and insecurity that I wanted gone. ASAP.
Age: 22
Fear, you poor boring creature, you’re being evicted from my space. Vacate the premises immediately, at my earliest convenience. Good riddance. You look sad, which is understandable. This is a difficult thing to hear, I imagine, maybe a bit painful. Maybe a bit out of the blue. Think back though, as we reminisce quickly before changing the locks. Notice that we’ve never gotten along very well. You made me sad and insecure. I fought you with the hope that you would leave on your own, but you never did. So, you should pack your things, Fear. I know you don’t have much, just some clothes that make me feel unworthy, rejected writing of mine in ugly stacks, and framed pictures of those I worry judge me the most. The pictures take up the most space these days. Please, please take all that useless nonsense away with you. I sure don’t want it around me anymore.
Fear, you can stay in the neighborhood, this I’ve accepted, since you will never really be able to leave. But, living in my intimate space will no longer be tolerated. I’m realistic, I understand that I need you sometimes. Although, even when you are around when I need you for necessary survival, you’re still not pleasurable. Yes, I may need you sometimes, Fear, but there is simply no room for them to be around constantly anymore.
Now, don’t worry, I’ll be nice when I see you on the street. I’ll wave like nothing’s happened at all. I’ll smile and think kindly, “Fear was only following all they knew.” I know better now though and deserve a much better, livable environment. You were a cluttered visitor, leaving your things everywhere for me to clean up later once I felt momentarily stronger, with less tears, less quivering hands, but still facing all the scattered reminders. You had always been the most inconsiderate tenant of them all.
I’d like to imagine the point where you’re already gone. The chapter near the end of the story where it’s been only a short while since you’ve moved out. A moving truck came, rumbling and noisy in the morning. Everything was loaded swiftly. No one spoke as I sipped my coffee and watched everyone scurry back and forth, taking, taking, taking in a way that felt good for once. You’re living down the street somewhere now and I didn’t bother to ask for the new address. I’ll still remember all your old belongings. Perhaps I’ll have to clean the dust that they collected around their edges on shelves or corner tables, but I’ll no longer have to see them everyday.
Now that all of your clutter is in the moving truck, that space of mine is white and clean. The light comes in from the windows at a downward angle, touching the floors and walls, empty as a canvas, in a peaceful lingering. There is a bit of remaining dust, just floating in the bright light streams, and I don’t mind. What Fear left has been made beautiful by what can be. This space is more full without you, Fear. You can’t see it, but the space is filled.
Karianne Gordon
Location: Pacific Grove, California
About: All I want to say about myself is in the piece.
Age: 56
“pa-dum” (Cal—my dad—critiquing my piano practice)
“You’re not pretty, but you can be attractive” (Dixie—my mom—on how I’ll never be beautiful)
How much do you weigh? (Dixie)
“You’re a good editor, so you should stay in your lane.” (spouse Mike after reading my China diaries 30 years ago). I was a technical writer/editor for 15 years before becoming a high school English teacher. I guess I’m better at editing other people’s work than writing my own.
Actually, I don’t think I’ve ever shared any of my creative writing with my spouse since #4. Maybe once when I “published” that poem, but was dismissed by our friends (and him). No one ever took that poem seriously. It sits in a hard-bound publication of works by other suckers like me.
First validation—writing project at CSU Stanislaus. They loved my trophy wife/Barbie piece! It came full circle. My best piece of writing. And then it was stolen from my front yard. For a license and a social security card. Journal in which I wrote the piece? Dumped in the trash.
Notes on my iPhone are my best friend. I think I’m not writing and then, Lo and behold! I’ve taken to pouring out my heart in an iPhone note. *sigh* Who will ever read these? Does it even matter?
Maryann Nasello
Location: Toronto, Canada
About: Growing up as a dancer, my focus was always: do better, be better, work harder, never give up. I was surrounded by incredibly talented dancers who (in my eyes) knew how to move so effortlessly and while I was pretty good - I never allowed myself to embrace that I was in fact, good enough. For many years, I got caught up in this pattern where dance always felt hard, and rather than it being about the movement - it became about my capability. In my final year, I worked with a teacher who graciously returned the power to me - dancing felt like an extension of who I was, it became my form of expression and where I felt the most connected to myself. My last solo was the greatest gift - it resembled breaking free from self-doubt, comparison, inadequacy - and reminded me of my power as a dancer.
Age: 25
Dance for me was always about expression - release. The way your body could take up space and move across the floor so effortlessly, it really was an incredible feeling to flow in unison with the music.I lived in bodysuits and tights for years - from dance classes at school to training in the studio afterward, it was the heartbeat of my life.
I can’t remember the moment that impacted my confidence as a dancer but what I do remember is that those creative injuries ran deep. I questioned my capabilities every day and would work harder to refine and perfect my technique. It’s been years now since I’ve danced the way I used to and thinking back to these moments where I felt small, I think I might be responsible for my creative injuries. I would look at others who were stronger and wish to be like them, wished to be better than them.
In my last years as a dancer, a new teacher was brought into our studio and she helped me tap back into the passion I deeply wanted. While dance came with so many creative injuries, it also gave me space to find my rhythm and heal. She helped me find my power and in my very last year, I competed as a soloist, and for once I felt good, I felt strong. The movement felt as though it was made for my body - equally challenging yet incredibly empowering. She created a dance that belonged to me and for those two and a half minutes, I felt free of judgment and totally immersed in the experience.
While I haven’t talked to her in years, she’ll always hold a very special place in my memory. Through dance, she helped me heal my creative injuries by showing me how to take the movement and make it my own. Dancing and learning alongside her are some of my best memories and I’ll always be grateful for her vision, determination and beautiful forms of expression.
