Magic Manifesto

Let’s chat, friendos. I’ve read this book by Elizabeth Gilbert, ohhh…roughly eleventy-one times or so I think. We’re pretty much besties, this book and me. Every time I get into a creative slump — which is way too often, if I’m being honest — I grab this book off the shelf and read it or, even better, check out the audio book version from the library and listen to Liz read it. It reminds me why I do this whole creative thing in the first place, why being creative is a gift and not a burden.

And I can do burden, trust me. I’ve got burden down to a tee. (I don’t know what that means, exactly, having something down to a tee. Maybe it’s actually tea, like the drink. I doubt it’s tee, as in tee shirt, but maybe? Capital T? I dunno. But I digress. Err hrr hmm…where were we? Ah yes, burden.) It feels to me like Life itself — yes, that’s Life with a capital L — has just sucked the creativity right outta me these last few years. Imagine a great big sucking THWOOOOOOK sound, like you’re pulling rubber boots from a mud bog, or the sound your giant too-big-for-your-mouth plastic straw makes when you finally reach the bottom of your Smoothie King drink.

Don’t worry, I won’t list all the creativity-sucking events going on in my life. That’s boring, and besides, you probably have your own long list. It’s enough to say I feel drained and exhausted pretty much every minute of every day these days. Probably you do too. These last three years have been a rough decade. At the end of each year, I find myself saying something like, “Next year I’ll really make it happen.” And then February comes along and it’s like, “Welp, so much for this year. Maybe next year.”

I’ve been doing this to myself for decades. Literal decades here, not just the years that feel like decades, but the actual increments of ten-year periods of time. I need to stop doing this to myself. I need to climb up towards the activities that fulfill me instead of constantly sliding down that gravelly path called complacency where I always end up skinning my knees and feeling unsatisfied. I do get it though, right? Life ain’t all summer days and cakes and rainbows. But it’s also not supposed to be all endless work and scraping by and being too exhausted to even think about what’s for dinner, let alone finding the energy for being creative.

Maybe I just want a little validation sometimes. Somebody somewhere looking down on me tsk tsk tsk’ing with pity and saying something like, “Yeah, you got it rough for sure. Rougher than anyone I know. I hereby exempt you from having to do anything meaningful with your life. Here is your hall pass with a bowling ball attached to it — it’s a permission slip to just wander through the corridors of this world and wallow. And while you’re busy wallowing, here’s a little bell you can ring and I’ll bring you anything you need.”

I can hear Wayne and Garth giggling in the background. “Shyeah…right! As if.”

The problem, of course, is me. Well, my attitude, more precisely. I possess two qualities that make my creative endeavors difficult for me to enjoy: 1) I am a perfectionist, and 2) I am a pessimist, although, to be fair, whenever someone calls me a pessimist I’ll often correct them and say, “No, I am a realist.” I know, tomato, potato. And yes, I realize these two attributes do not complement each other at all. In fact these two are very often getting into fist fights with each other. “I can do truly great things!” my Perfectionist yells as he throws a haymaker. Meanwhile my Pessimist is ducking and covering and yelling back, “Give it up, you’ll never amount to anything!” And more often than not it’s my writing time that gets trashed in this never-ending brawl because I spend all my time trying to referee the two of them, clawing my way into the middle trying to break them up.

What’s the solution? Big Magic offers many, which is why I love this book so much. If I took a hostage, Big Magic would be the negotiator offering me cheeseburgers and milkshakes while we worked it out. When I’m up on a ledge, Big Magic is next to me at the window sill talking me down and telling me it’s gonna be okay.

I 100% want to live my best creative life. Being a perfectionist means I want to be the best. Being a pessimist means I recognize I might not ever be the best. Probably I’ll never be the best. Oftentimes those two truths — if they even are truths, we could probably debate that — feels like this inside my brain: If it’s worth doing, it’s worth being the best, and if I can’t be the best, why bother trying at all? And that, my friends, is a dangerous thought to have. Voltaire said, “Perfect is the enemy of good.” Perfect is also unattainable, and I know this. Deep down I truly, honestly know this. I do.

I’m always gonna be tired. I’m always gonna have more work in a day than I can possibly get done. I’m always gonna have external people and events and deadlines and to-do’s competing for my time and energy and attention. Always, it’s been creativity that has taken a back seat. And for me, that means my writing. I’ll do it later turns into I’ll do it tomorrow, which turns into I’ll do it next week, which turns into I’ll do it next year. And that cycle has been going round and round now for decades. And let’s face it, for me, the days ahead are likely shorter now than the days behind, and this dude simply hasn’t got the time to screw around anymore.

My Magic Manifesto

The time for screwing around is over. The time for procrastinating is over. The time for chasing perfection is over. The time for waiting on the perfect time to be creative is over. Einstein says time is relative, and I believe Einstein. Time is my own personal Stretch Armstrong. I will bend it, stretch it, pull it, twist it into whatever units I need, whenever I need it. I will chop it, slice it, dice it, tie it up in knots, pull it’s head off and stick it on something else if I want to. Boom! There it is! A Stretch Armstrong head atop a T-Rex body. I am Father Time in this universe. I no longer serve time, time serves me.

Perfection and Pessimism can fight all they want, I’m done being their referee. Cage Match, Death Match, WWE, Battle Royale, Tag Team, MMA, Kumite, Thunderdome…I don’t care. I’m leaving the smoke-filled arena and driving off without them. They can catch an Uber and be someone else’s roommates. They were toxic friends anyway who never served me well, and I’m better off without them. So long, losers. Sayonara, suckas. All your crap is on the curb.

I will keep the front door unlocked in case Inspiration and Muse wanna drop by for a visit, but if they’re expecting the dishes to be done and the trash to be emptied and the rugs to be vacuumed when they get here, they might be more comfortable at the neighbor’s place. This isn’t a house for entertaining. This is a house for working. Ain’t nobody got time for fluffing pillows and making beds and scrubbing rings out of the bathtub. In this house, Stretch Armstrong is lopsided. One of his arms might’ve been yanked right off. He’s not lying on a couch with color-coordinated throw pillows and his feet propped up on an ottoman. That dude is sprawled out on the floor covered in dog hair and dust bunnies, likely with boot marks stamped across his chest and stale raisins stuck in his hair. If Inspiration and Muse stop by, they better come with rolled up sleeves, and ready to get their hands dirty, because that’s what I’ll be doing.

No one gets to define my success except me. Success is not publication. Success is not fame and riches. Success is not prizes and trips and book signings and one day quitting my day job. Success is DOING THE THING. Success is the act of creating. Success includes everything involved in the act of creating. Success is the idea. Success is the thinking. Success is the pantsing. Success is the plotting. Success is the butt in chair, and the frustration, and the gaps in logic, and the self-doubt, and the plot holes, and the false starts, and the failures, and the setbacks, and the editing, and the rewriting, and the critiques, and the submitting, and the waiting, and the rejections. Success is keeping with it and enduring all the moving parts that make up THE THING. Success is limping out of the burning building, sweaty and blood-soaked, a dripping meat cleaver in one hand, a smoking gun in the other, and looking up at the sky and shouting, “THE THING is done, and I am still alive, and I am excited to do it all again!”

Fear has no power over me. “What if everyone hates what I write?” Write for your own delight and entertainment, not anyone else’s. Palm strike that sucker right in its big fat face. Kapow! Nose cartilage all up in its frontal lobe. “What if no one ever buys my stories?” Then you’ll have your own collection to do whatever you want with. Mozambique Drill time…bam! bam! bam!…two to the chest and one to the head. “What if no one takes me seriously?” Here’s something serious: a super-fly jump right off the ropes with a flying elbow to the nards. Aargh! “What if I’m not original enough?” There’s nothing wrong with classic story lines, just add your own authentic spin and experiences. And speaking of classics, how about a karate chop to the throat. Hiyah!

Let’s kick down some walls and blow some stuff up and make some things happen. The time for screwing around is over.