What’s Trauman Not Working On?
Asking someone what they’re working on is usually pretty harmless. Depending on who you’re talking to, it might even be a little exciting. People get to brag on themselves a little (see my previous post, for example), and you might even get to exchange some ideas, validation, and encouragement. But it’s a whole different dynamic to ask someone what they’re not working on. If someone’s not working on something, why even talk about it?
At least in part, we created this podcast because we wanted more creativity in our everyday lives. Clearly, something has been missing. Not entirely, but I think Harley and I share a sense that there could be more. And we’d enjoy that.
We’re addressing that lack or absence from two different perspectives. On the one hand, we’re going to look outside our own lives to find out as much as we can about how other people think about creativity and practice it in their everyday lives. These will sort of be investigative interviews. We also plan to explore as much as we can possibly read about the subject.
On the other hand, we also think it’s essential to explore what keeps us from being creative. We’re going to start by admitting and taking a cold, hard look at the projects we want to be working on. Or think we should be working on. Or projects that we’re avoiding.
The big idea here is that the two most important factors determining your creative output are motivation and resistance. I don’t know what I’m going to find when I start asking these questions. But I’m ready to start the inquiry.
So what am I not working on?
Collecting My Dad
My dad died when I was a little kid. My mom remarried a couple of years after that, so we didn’t spend much time telling stories about him. My mom passed away while I was in college, and we still hadn’t talked much about him. My younger sister has no memory of him, and talking about my dad just isn’t my older brother’s thing.
A few years ago, I decided to take a trip back to North Dakota, where we both grew up. I interviewed his sister, my aunt Wilma, and his brother, my Uncle Brian. I also interviewed his mother, my grandma, about him about a year before taking the trip.
And finally, I have a few of his possessions: dog tags from Vietnam, a cologne bottle shaped like a bullet, his driver’s license, his glasses, and some other things.
But the real kicker here is that a couple of years ago, my brother gave me a set of letters my dad had written to my mom when he was in Vietnam. I didn’t know they existed. My mom must have kept them hidden in her closet somewhere. I’ve had these now for a few years. And I still haven’t been able to open them. I haven’t yet done the hard work of asking myself why.
I don’t remember any actual conversations with my dad. I’m sure we had them; I just don’t remember any. Or the sound of his voice.
Growing up, my dad was like a ghost darting around corners in my memory and imagination. I never really got a fully formed picture of him. Part of that is because I just didn’t have much raw material to work with, other than some poorly-focused photographs and little snippets mentioned in passing. I think the other reason is simple but deep trauma. So there’s a lot to unpack there.
Making Digital Stories
I want to make more digital stories. Some personal non-fiction. Some flash-fiction. Some essayistic and reflective. I’ve started scripts for hundreds of them. Completed scripts for dozens. Finished about six. And four of them are actually good. If you want to watch a couple, here you go: Ironing and Small Fists.
I know how to write a script, and I know how to pair it with images to make a good story. I’m not sure why I haven’t made one of these for years. Creating one of these little vignettes takes a lot out of me, and it takes a certain amount of nerve to say something about an inner emotional life and to want to share that with other people.
It might also be that I’ve been making these and helping others to make them for so long that I’m a little tired of the genre.
If I get back to these, I’m probably going to want to experiment a bit more with the form. I currently have crushes on two digital storytellers: Charlie Tyrell and Bianca Giaever.
Furnishing My Life
I know. This one is a little weird. I mentioned in my last post that I moved into my current place five months ago. And I had virtually no furniture. A mattress on the floor. A big red chair. A television, but nothing to rest it on. Some plywood shelves I was using for a desk. A broken office chair. I also had a half-dozen small pieces of art.
I work from home, so I was going barebones. I picked up a tv stand for $20. A big working table for $30. A small, round kitchen table for free. And some halfway decent shelving cubes for $100. Finally, I spent another $100 on a bright orange couch. Everything is cheap and temporary and cast off from someone else’s life.
I’ve been working like a madman since I moved in (see my previous post) and I’ve spent every spare moment merely trying to rest for the next day. As a result, I haven’t built the shelves I promised myself I would install in my bedroom, workshop, office, and kitchen. And I haven’t fashioned myself a proper desk for my office. I’ve still got dozens of boxes that need unpacking, and I have yet to hang a single thing on the walls. It’s been five months, and it’s starting to feel a bit ridiculous.
I’m confident that this predicament is only due to time restrictions, and now that my schedule will be clearing just a bit, I’m going to start making progress on this again. First, the shelves; then unpack the rest of the boxes. And finally, crown the project with a new custom desk.
Finding a New Hobby
I’ve been reading a lot about creativity for the last few months. One thing keeps coming up: a lot of creativity is about unique or unexpected combinations. A quick review of what I’m working on and what I’m not reveals a pretty consistent focus. I like to create things with words. Copywriting, podcasting, digital storytelling. Words all the time.
For the first time in my life, I’m starting to understand that when all my work has the same general orientation, there’s minimal opportunity to draw on radically different ideas. Maybe I need to work more with my hands or body.
Maybe I’ll return to making pots. Or a visual art like painting or chalk pastels. Or perhaps it won’t even be a creative hobby. Maybe I’ll get back into cycling. Or try yoga. Or take a dance class. I don’t know. There’s no hurry on this one. I’ve got plenty to figure out and plenty to finish before I need to figure out what comes next.
