Since opening the shop(s), I've been mostly creatively fulfilled enough; every aspect of the job requires creativity. Hell, even the accounting is creative (kidding! kidding! I have no idea how to do the accounting). But for real, I'm every day dealing in dresses and every night dreaming of yarn. It's no 9-5 (literally or metaphorically) and I mostly dig it, hard. There's been something missing though and it's my writing.
I've had lots of reasons for not getting started earlier than this. Lots of "but what to write about". And why bother, who cares and do you even have anything to say. The usual, self-doubting kind of negative nancys dancing around my head. I got started though, here, in December and so far I've written about Taylor Swift and food and friends and art, so, duh, write about what you know. Rule numero uno! It feels wonderful and I'm proud of myself and optimistic about what it all means.
Taking it further though (as I am wont to do. Why oh WHY can my mind just not leave well enough alone?), I day dream about literary journals, of stealing away to a beach cottage for a month to "work on my novel" (I don't have a novel), and expensing lunches in Greenwich Village after interviewing the Gagosian Gallery's latest art scene darling. You know, that writerly shit.
For now, I sit on the floor in front of the fire in my house, my ancient MacBook between my knees, with my cat purring beside me and Tom making dinner in the kitchen (blackened mahi mahi - tres exotic!) and I blog about my dinner. I crave adventure and I dwell in habit. Not a bad thing at all. It's just every so often, I feel the faint tugs of creative energy coming from some vague place in my brain, trying to coalesce into a formed idea and instead of brainstorming and word cloud-ing, coaxing those ideas out......I immediately check availability at French countryside AirBnb's and mentally pack my bags for the non existent writer's retreat in Key West I'm gonna attend. I need to learn to exist now, here, with what I have and Tim Gunn it. You know, make it work. As my meatball says "it's those Aries horns, always wanting change". Or maybe I just need a vacation?
To wrap up, I wanna leave you with a quote from the play Red written by John Logan. It's a two-person production and is a brief glimpse into the studio of tortured artist Mark Rothko, as he worked alongside his assistant. Here, he tells that assistant about his impassioned frenemy, Jackson Pollock.
"You would have loved Jackson. He was a downtown guy, a real Bohemian. No banker's hours for him, believe you me. Every night the drinking and the talking and the fighting and the dancing and the staying up late; like everyone's romantic idea of what an artist ought to be; the anti-Rothko...At his worst you still loved him though; you loved him because he loved art so much....He thought it mattered. He thought painting mattered...Does the poignancy not stop your heart?"