I always imagined that once I had my own space, there would be nothing between me and my creative pursuits. I would drink from my wine glass and write, paint, and draw unceasingly. My achievements would know no bounds, and I would churn out novel after novel.
How naive I was in my adolescence to believe that the only thing between me and great art was my parents and my miserable household. The truth is that once I was alone (as I often begged to be), I had to face my indolence. Days would go by where my greatest joy was staring at the ceiling, and my various journals would remain untouched.
I blamed my trauma. I blamed the lack of love in my life. I was empty and needed to be filled with zest once more before I could begin to create. Was God not inspired when he uttered those beautiful words, “Let there be light”? But these conclusions were antithetical to a fundamental belief that I have: the belief that all humans are makers. Our ancestors were always creating, even with nature’s crudest elements. Here I was, daughter of hunter, gatherer, fishermen, and industrialist, yet I was impotent. How could that be?
It became clear that the simplest explanation proved true. I wasn’t making anything, because I was not trying to. The simplest task seemed insurmountable when I considered all of the steps required to complete a work. After all, how could I produce my magnum opus when I struggled to sit still for more than five minutes at a time? Potential ADHD aside, there was also the lingering fear that quickly smothered the slightest spark of inspiration: the fear that what I made would not be any good.
There is something that happens to child prodigies or anyone who appears to have a sliver of aptitude for a particular skill. People observe your proficiency and develop expectations of your work. There was a time where I was so bad at math, the fact that I was reading at a 10th grade level in primary school was of no consequence to my teachers. Yet, when numbers began making sense and I was deemed advanced, they were never allowed to confuse me again. An 83% on a math test felt like failure.
Mediocrity is something I am deathly afraid of. Though I became deeply acquainted with the idea and even relished in the idea of black children being allowed to be mediocre once I started divesting from narratives of “black excellence”, someone labeling my work as such felt like a condemnation that would discourage me from the pursuit of art altogether.
My hope is that with a new canvas in my lap, I am wiser than I was yesterday. I cannot allow my fear of mediocrity to paralyze my hands such that I leave no record of my existence at all. That is why I am inviting you and myself to indulge in the impetus to begin. I see now that starting is just as important as finishing. For a stream to flow steadily, it must build momentum.
There was a time where the words flowed freely from my fingertips, and I didn’t ask why. I hadn’t a clue where my story was going or how it would end. I did not contemplate the perceptions of others or care about whether anyone believed me to be “good”. Rather, I delighted in the strokes of my pencil and dedication to my craft, however miniscule and irrelevant to the world around me. I did, however, care if what I wrote was true.
For the next 30 days, I would like to challenge myself to write like I breathe, assiduously, as though my heart would give out if I did not. Look around. The collective consumption of art is, indeed, obsessive and relentless such that machines churn out content for fear that we may run out. I am guilty of suckling from the teat of these various media subscriptions to ease the sharpness of my days. If not for them, where would I find restoration when I am merely a specter? But lately, I am longing to create more and consume less. If I could only consume my existing portfolio, I would starve in a few days’ time. In that sense, it truly is a matter of life and death.
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