Someone once told me I needed to grow a thicker skin. But I usually take a perhaps twisted pleasure in feeling the knife in the wound, so I rejected this comment outright. It wasn’t meant as advice, anyway; more as criticism.
When it comes to rejection, however, it’s a different story. I feel the hurt too keenly, and with each rejection comes the questioning of my entire existence.
I’ve been asking myself what the solution is, and the answer I’ve come up with is that the more it happens, the less painful it will become.
And you have to be in the game to stand a chance of winning it, right?
It’s a funny thing, creativity.
Maybe you’re lucky and have it blooming from your fingertips, and you get to pick the cream of the crop.
Maybe you’re frustrated, and it’s trapped and building up like water in a hosepipe with a knot in it.
Mine is elusive. I never thought it could be governed by rules. But lately, I’ve come to understand two things about it. First of all, it’s so very true what they say – that creativity is like a muscle. It does need to be exercised, and the more it is exercised, the stronger and more flexible it becomes. The other thing: I know that my mind and my body need to be in their best form for creativity to sprout. Since in moments of darkness my creativity cannot bloom, I must do all I can to prevent those moments of darkness from closing in.
These are lessons to myself.
The other day, I was asked how I motivate myself to write.
Ha! I nearly spat my drink across the table.
Because, even if I lack the means to motivate myself to do anything else in life, writing is the one thing I don’t have – have never had – a problem with doing.
Sitting at my computer, or at my desk with a pen in my hand, does not and has never scared, intimidated or not appealed to me. In fact, it’s as near my idea of the perfect way to spend my time as I can realistically come up with.
Time, I said. Time. That’s the issue here.
How, in today’s setting of having to earn a living, manage a household, use but not allow yourself to abuse social media, network, read, exercise and have something resembling a social life, I asked, does one find the time to write?
Answers on a postcard, please, because I’m sure you don’t have time to write a letter.
It’s early June, and the rain has been near-torrential for most of the day. I’m in one of my memories-from-the-future: I’m sitting at my computer, typing, looking out of the large window onto the city below, trying to earn a living… and I guess that means the future is no longer future. And I guess that means I’ve made it.
Time to write. And begin again this process that I started so very long ago, before fear and insecurity took me over and told me that my voice was worthless.
Time to write.