The power to protect the light of our creativity rests with us.
Photo by Eyasu Etsub on Unsplash
Just a few thoughts on the need to protect the light of creativity and how the power to do so rests with us: in our hands, in our minds, in our belief that we have something worth thinking, worth saying—something worth writing.
This is an excerpt from my newsletter, The Writing Life for June 2022. You can also listen to it on my Living the Writing Life podcast.
When it comes to the creative process, fear can be the biggest roadblock to success. And it often takes the form of the dreaded “What if” question. For example:
What if I can’t write?
What if I start writing but I’m afraid that it’s too trite or silly or superficial?
What if the idea is good but I can’t write it well enough to do it justice?
What if I do write it and I think it’s good, but nobody wants to read it?
What if people read it, but says it’s badly written?
What if people like it so my editor or publisher wants more, and I can’t deliver?
What if I do deliver, but my readers, editor or publisher say it’s not as good as the last one?
What if that negative response is so devastating that I can’t write?
And so the circle continues…
Some writers (I would wager a limited few) are hardly ever troubled by those questions. Some writers (unfortunately a larger percentage than the first group) give up when confronted by one of those scenarios.
And the rest of us writers hear the questions, face those scenarios, debate about the wisdom (or psychological flagellation) of continuing to write and then—and then do it anyway.
Or to use a different metaphor, we keep walking, even during those times when the candle of creativity that has been lighting our way dims to almost nothing.
I’m reminded of an E. L. Doctorow quote: “Writing a novel is like driving a car at night. You can only see as far as your headlights, but you can make the whole trip that way.”
And while that quote is about writing a novel, it’s also true of the process itself: fiction, nonfiction, poetry or prose. When the flame of creativity burns hot, there is so much light we can see all the way to the end, even if we’ve only written the beginning.
But when fear comes and darkens that light, we can’t even make out the first word, the first syllable, the first letter.
When that happens, we have to trust the process and trust ourselves. Trust that the process—the writing routine that we have established—will keep us going even when there is no good reason why we should. And we have to trust ourselves—trust that the creativity that is part of us (some would say is the best part of us) is strong enough to defy the fear, bright enough to give us the confidence to put one foot in front of the other without stumbling.
Because even if the candle of creativity begins to flicker, becomes faint, or fails to give us all the illumination we may need at any given moment, it is still alive. And the only way it will completely go out is if we choose to extinguish it.
In the end, keeping the light of creativity alive rests with us: in our hands, in our minds, in our belief that we have something worth thinking, worth saying—something worth writing.
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