I recently had a conversation with a friend about what it means to create, to be a creative. In today’s world it is easy to take up an artistic hobby, we are surrounded by so much beauty and by so many platforms to share it on, but oftentimes that want to create is met by skepticism both from ones self and the world around you. Can I call myself an artist if I am just painting random colors on Sunday afternoons for no one to see but my cat? Can I call myself a dancer if my stage is the aisles of a grocery store? Can I call myself a musician if I only know two cords and can’t play an entire song? Can I call myself a writer if I never publish a novel?
I love to write and if you ask my mom I am quite good at it. At work I actually spend 90% of my time writing. I write blog posts, recipes, letters to CEOs, actions alerts, and reports. But am I a writer? No, I am a campaign coordinator (a title that most definitely encourages creativity...). I spend my evenings writing letters and postcards to my dear friends. Does that qualify me as a writer?
What if I am a writer solely based on my love of the written word and my profound yearning to put paper to pen and to form sentences, oftentimes with misspellings and grammatical errors.
Just maybe this could be the space for that. Maybe I will never have a blog with tutorials on how to make feathered lampshades or one that is a monetizing opportunity. Maybe I will never publish a book.
But maybe this can be a space where magic happens.
Where creativity flows freely and once a week I post a picture from my Instagram account and I write. I write the words that I didn’t say to anyone, the words on my heart, and the words that came to mind when the sun was shining and the wind was blowing and all was good. I write about how I feel about knitting or my latest obsession or those memories from college that are so embedded in my mind that I relive them constantly, because there is something so joyful about laughing in Trader Joe’s over my absurd need to buy so many cans of black beans. What if I write about growing up and growing old and how hard it is and how wonderful it might just be? What if I write about my fears and dreams and joys?
What if this place is where I write things that I believe in? Where I write in my own voice. Where I am not censored by organizational speaking points and ways of talking. Where for a few minutes the world isn’t dark and depressing and I am not surrounded by the discouraging reality of the global food system.
What if this space becomes a place of freedom where the expectations of the world do not matter? Where the pressure to be perfect doesn’t exist?
Where I can be a writer not by profession but simply by passion.