Okay, but now in actuality

Creativity is not a talent, it is a way of operating.

-John Cleese

I remember that my first composition project for school was called Thresholds. At the time, I thought that it had to do with crossing the initial threshold from being just a musician to being a creator, someone who composed original music. I see now that it was the start of my precarious teetering on the precipice of being good, and this is a trap I now find myself in. 

Lately I've felt so lost creatively that I don't know what to do with myself. My partner tells me to rest, to allow myself time to breathe, and because I am so terrible at that, when I'm at rest, all I want to do is create something, learn something, or improve my existing skills. Lately, I've been meditating on the idea of "knowledge, not an improvement,"  that I want to learn for the sake of learning and not because I need to improve or change myself. Still, it feels near impossible to learn things and not want to share or put them into action immediately. 

Take HTML, for instance. I have been teaching myself HTML and CSS (slowly) to build my website, which has been a longtime goal of mine. Now that I can do it, it is becoming a massive burden on my psyche since I can't only learn something; I have to go and apply it immediately. I can apply my newfound skills and put them to work now; why shouldn't I let my perfectionism win in this instance? I can tweak a block of text for hours and hours until it looks just right from my conception, but I'm still not satisfied with it. 

In the same way, I can't leave something alone creatively. When a project is out of my hands, I fear losing control. It is also a sign of my age and that I have time to unlearn these traits throughout my lifetime, but the impatience weighs on me now: When will confidence in my creative ability find me? When will I know and be able to create without hindrance? I'm reminded of that Defunctland or Bright Sun Films quote (I don't remember who said it) about "The only thing I hate more than the process of creating a video is not creating one at all," and I feel that on a spiritual level.

Creativity, unless I am receiving divine inspiration, is a grueling task for me. From start to finish, unless I am given something that I feel directly motivates and inspires me to mold, I toil over the logistics and minutiae of sculpting my clay. In every aspect of my life too, anything that involves the sense of me: what I wear, what I say, what I listen to, what I read, and so on until the indecision rips me apart from the inside molecule by molecule. This is no way for someone to live. 

And so I continue to self-therapize by forcing creation out of me. I hide behind an online monitor because I am so terrified of having an odd idea tied to me that is innately not good. That's a terrifying thought to read written out, but it's true, and this fear rules me. I am constantly at war with the forces that compel me to create and the opposite but equally powerful force that bids me to keep all my projects to myself for eternity. I spend all my time pining after the accomplishments of other artists rather than reveling in my many achievements. When I learn of someone else in my field, I have to know their age so that I can comfort myself by thinking, "I'm still young. I still have time. I can do that one day."

Who is this invisible force that is judging my creations before they even leave my hands? My inner critic used to take the form of a military drill instructor who spent his time belittling and degrading me to keep my ego and sense of self in the dirt, but since leaving therapy, he's been so silent that I assumed he was gone. No, there is a new inner critic that I have to deal with. It's an extension of my ego, a version of myself who is much older and more accomplished, and she only got this way by being brutal to herself. She has no sense of self or time for her passion because she has already "made it" by some standards. Or if she hasn't yet she's working herself into the grave to be there. She's sitting on a throne above me, looking down, listening to my latest creation, and delivering constant, scathing criticism. Or if she isn't shouting these things down at me, she rests her chin on my shoulder right behind me to whisper in my ear how my art, and by extension, my very existence, are mediocre. 

Her words are honey-laced poison; she has no contribution to the creative world other than to place herself on top of it because she is so afraid of being at the bottom. Failure is not an option, and mediocrity is worse than death. She is compelled by the need to be good. Whatever that means, Goodness is elusive and effusive and spreads to everything. Once you achieve goodness, you can stop trying. Everything you make has now achieved the benchmark of good. This is where she is, eternally struggling at the threshold of being good. 

So here I am, trapped in this forever struggle. How do I let a side win? The first thought that comes to mind is sharing a project of mine that I feel a lot of shame and failure over, but then I asked myself, "Which one?" because I immediately thought of five or six projects that were real stinkers in my head: There's the podcast theme I wrote, which is unbalanced and has an obvious trumpet playing alongside real clarinet; the film score, which is unbalanced and uses the stock saxophones from Logic's library; the numerous school projects, which had little to no direction and ended up a jumbled pile of malformed ideas; and the two piano albums I recorded with no concept of mic placement or audio treatment in the reverberating basement of my parent's house. Which bad project should I share? 

Most of these exist somewhere, under my real name. It's possible that someone reading this has listened to or stumbled across them. These projects don't occupy my mind or cause me strife; they are the projects that I'm working on now, and I fear failure more than anything. These things in the past? They've existed. I made them and pushed them out to trip over their shoelaces and lie in the mud. And they're still facedown in that mud to this day; nothing has changed about them except me. These are all humorous experiences in my head now, and their existence has not and will not change anything about my creative journey. 

Even one of my favorite writers, Ursula K. LeGuin, included one of her weak early stories in her anthology of her best works because it was evidence of her growth. Perhaps it's my fear of lack of growth that keeps me here, rolling around in despair with these previously abandoned projects, but anyone who knows me tells me that's not true. I know that's not true. 

For all my complaining and moping about who I am and what I need to do in my life, I know there is one thing I am not: complacent. I know how to grow and learn things; I know how to be accomplished; and I know how to work hard. I work in a field where I am creative and perform every day in a place where I pick the music. Most creatives and musicians would claw my eyes out for this opportunity. I persist in my goals; once my eyes are set on something, I won't relinquish my drive until I have a modicum of success. 

So when it comes to sharing my work and overcoming the poisonous wrath in my ear, what do I do? For one, I continue to share everything, no matter how trivial or painful it may be to my ears; it may end up being an inspiration or a jumping-off point for someone else. I remind myself of my failures, not to keep myself humble but to remind myself of how little they matter. I continue to listen to my mind and body, and I rest when it's time to rest to be more energized when it's time to create. I avoid the pitfall of needing goodness and instead focus on enjoying the process of creation, for that is the closest I can and will be to divinity.