Recently, I have been met by the overwhelming desire to make things. Not that this is out of the ordinary; I have always been known to be the creative sort. I have sewn, I knit, I crafted and DIYed, I put together outfits and took pictures, I act (of course), one time I wrote a play, and another time I fancied myself funny. However, lately it seems that the days fill up too quickly and I just can’t find the time or proper outlet to release the creativity that wiggles and worms inside me in the itchiest of ways.
I have taken to browsing the web for much yenned for inspiration. Perusing the “small cool” spaces of apartment therapy and the mouthwatering treats laid out on the kitchn. I admire the pretty pictures people take and the pretty meals they make, which they make in pretty houses and serve on pretty plates. With these as my exemplars, the thought of “making something” only grows more daunting. I can’t bake a cake like joy the baker! Or roast a chicken like smitten kitchen! Or imagine an incessantly clever recipe like spoon fork bacon! (Yes I know these are all food examples… now shush you.)
And then I realized one of my favorite things about all these writers, creators, makers, whatever you’d like to call them, is that many of them write about these very doubts. They’re embarrassed by their messy closets, they didn’t have time to clean the house, they trip on their tongues when talking to boys, or their bosses, or their no-longer possibly future bosses. I find my brain bouncing in circles trying to reconcile Lena Dunham’s self-deprecating humor with her success (OMG I WANT TO FAIL AS GOOD AS SHE DOES?) to take one of my latest and most favorite creative examples. How is it that these fantastically creative people share all my thoughts and feelings about inadequacy while making so many tremendous things?
I looked around my space: a space which like so many other things of late I have found incredibly dissatisfying, which in post-graduate cohabitation with my parents seems to shrink by the second, and realized that, after-all, maybe it is not so bad. I may not have reign of a kitchen to fill with colorful plates and pans, or a living room to decorate with fancy pillows and throws, but there is something about the little space I have that could be “small and cool” in it’s own childhood meets young adulthood sort of way. Maybe I’m not so different from all my creative mini-idols. I reorganized
a drawer and tidied up my desk (which is rapidly untidying itself as I speak) and thought maybe, just maybe, I canmake things here.
It would be much more romantic for me to start this blog (my fourth in about that many years — wait, no, it’s been five years! 5!) with some sort of resolution or declaration, like “I will make a thing a day, no matter how small” or maybe even “a thing a week,” but I think this sort of fatalistic guideline is where my previous blogs eventually crumbled and failed. Life happens, things get in the way, but maybe now, more than ever, as little time as I may have, I need an outlet for my creativity, because if I know one thing, it’s that I am most happy when I can create. Be it pen to paper (or rather, fingers to keys), needle to thread, oil to pan, simply taking the extra 20 seconds to pick just the right belt to go with that dress, or my favorite kind of “making,” making a character, acting a part; when I think about it, I probably do make something every day… even if I’m only making my train… or making way too many run-on-sentences. Maybe this blog too will soon fall by the wayside with my others, but for now, I’m once again going to take my chances.
And tonight, I can say I made a blog! And it’s ok that I stated up a little later than I meant to and didn’t catch up on another bad TV show. In truth, I’ve been wanting to write this post for a while… but was really hoping I’d have “made something” more tangible (or at least had the blog “more ready”) to post with it. Well… so be it. Let’s see how it goes.