The Messy Business of Creating
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In her heartbreakingly wonderful book This I Know: Notes on Unraveling the Heart, photographer Susannah Conway explains that writing is “a vocation that pays out twice: first to you as the detective unraveling your heart and then again to the reader who consumes your work.”
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This echoes a conversation I had recently with my dear friend Judith who reminded me that the life-changing moment for a writer is not necessarily being published, or even being read. The life-changing moment is the creative spark, that white hot moment of inspiration.
The rest, as they say, is gravy. More or less.
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More or less. Unless you're hoping for a side of conversation to go along with your gravy. A hint of “I know what you mean” or a nodding dash of “This one time, at band camp…”
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I realize I’ve got a bit of skin in the game — my ego’s skin, out there on the playing field, as Conway writes, “exposed, like I’m flashing my underwear.”
Maybe I'm just expecting too much. A friend wrote recently “I allows felt like I was intruding on your thoughts. Like it was your diary and I picked it up and started reading it. It just seemed so personal and raw.”
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But isn’t that the point?
To tell our stories? To share what it is to be human — personal, raw, messy? To communicate the “universal experiences,” my high school English teacher still reminds me whenever I put pen to paper.
“We don’t write to be published,” Conway explains in her book, “we write to make sense of the noise in our heads. We write to record memories and share what we know. We write to feel less alone…”
That IS a messy business, isn’t it? It requires each of us to be open — the writer and the reader — to bear witness to the story, the noise, the fear, the aloneness.
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I whole heartedly agree with Conway when she writes:
“I’m so compelled to share, knowing that in the sharing we find common ground, that my story might sing to your heart, just as your story calls to mine. The world is smaller when we tell the truth about our lives.”
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And in these days of social distancing and global crises, isn’t this when we most need small worlds, creative exchanges, and moments of raw personal connection?
Love,
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Judith and I met 11 years ago, in the comment fields of our Wordpress blogs. That was back in the day when folks actually commented on blog posts. Before we were so enamored by the shorthand script of Facebook and Twitter, before we abandoned sentences for hashtags and hearts.
Thankfully, she and I have transcended all of that. During the pandemic, we each started on a new creative path…she with a series of weekly podcasts called From My Button Box, and me with MANIFEST (zine). She’s working on a new manuscript, and I’m toying with the idea of bringing an old one off the back burner.
And there’s no need for us to comment in comment fields anymore. We’ve Zoomed weekly through COVID and just a couple weeks ago had our first unmasked, in-person visit. Who knows what comes next?
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Manifest (zine): CRICKETS
Storytelling is in our DNA says Brené Brown. We share our stories because “we feel most alive when we’re brave with our stories.” So we write. And we create. No matter who listens or responds. Crickets be damned.
Issue #4: Crickets
24-Page, Full-Color Booklet
Curated Spotify Playlist
Part artist book, part chapbook, MANIFEST (zine) is the creation of Connecticut writer / poet / artist Jen Payne. Consider it a hold-in-your-hands art installation layered with words, colors, collage, and bits and pieces of creative whatnot.
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We’ve both been dancing all this time,
what a coincidance!
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Namaste is said to mean “the spirit in me sees the spirit in you.” So with this, the creative in me sees the creative in you in you and we say, Wow, you can really dance. Wow YOU can really dance.
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what’s that?
With hidden links, videos, and rabbit holes to explore, this Summer 2021 enewsletter is meant to be savored slowly. So grab some (iced) coffee and enjoy!
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Heart artwork by Jen Payne.
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