Celebrating Completion!

Originally published September 30, 2012, at Creative Dream Journals.

Ahh, completion! Praise and sunshine and confetti and glory!

This month, Jamie Ridler suggested that the Creative Dream Journalers write about completion. The timing is perfect for me because just a week and a half ago, I finished writing my first book manuscript and sent it to my publisher. The book itself is far from complete—among other things, I will need to revise it based on feedback from my editor and three expert reviewers—but still, this is completion.

I began researching the material for this book fifteen years ago, in 1997. Five years later, I had a complete PhD dissertation, but my plans for a book got waylaid by other life demands, including a serious health crisis, a career change, three cross-country moves, and the launch of my own editing business. When I began to emerge from this hullaballoo, I spent two years writing a variety of book proposals targeted to different kinds of literary agents and publishers. A year ago, in August 2011, after receiving a bunch of rejections, I heard that my current publisher was interested, and this past January, I signed a contract. Since then, I’ve split my time between earning a living and writing the book.

And now, I get to take a break.

The day after I sent my manuscript to my editor, I went to a coffee shop and wrote a list of priorities for my post-manuscript life. Then I did a five-day fruit-and-vegetable detox diet. Then I immediately began retoxing by going out to brunch with a friend and then landing at a bookstore, where I’m eating a chocolate croissant while I write this post.

I worked for my editing clients this past week, but I also went river tubing, swam at a spring-fed pool, spent an hour bouncing on a huge trampoline, and went to a potluck dinner at a friend’s house.

To my surprise, I also rediscovered my interest in my book’s subject matter—spirituality and progressive religion—and attended the first of a six-part sermon series on the world religions at a local progressive church.

I’m playing. My favorite thing to do.

There are projects ahead—remaining work on this book, beginning the next one, and a variety of projects related to my non-writing life. But for now, my project is to play. To relax. To explore. To wander. To rest in that creative space of security—off task mode, no goals, no requirements, just being in the moment. That’s how I want to spend what have, for past several years, been my writing days. Refilling the well—an ongoing artist’s date—a return to center—a return to me—a temporary reprieve from productivity, for the sake of receptivity.

Since the career change/serious illness extravaganza, I’ve become a paranoid person. So it occurs to me: by stating my intention to partially abdicate responsibility to task-completion, am I inviting disaster? Will some crisis or set of crises arise to punish me for committing to being carefree for a while? Are true vacations—the kind where you really relax mentally and emotionally—allowed? Will my grand plan to be plan-free for a while get averted by Things That Need To Get Done?

Maybe. But today, I’m happy, and I’m going for it. That’s the joy of completion.

Following Your Own Inner Wisdom is Freakin’ Crucial

Originally published May 22, 2012, at Creative Dream Journals.

I can point to so many people I’ve learned life lessons from. I’ve talked about some of them in other posts on this blog, and some are other contributors. But for me, the greatest lesson I’ve learned is to follow my inner wisdom. It’s a cliché, but it’s truth, and that’s the way to say it.

The best teachers I’ve had are people who have helped me do this. They modeled integrity themselves; or they actively listened to me and asked questions to help me figure out what I want, think, and feel; or they reacted positively when I followed my own path, spoke my mind, wrote what I wanted to write, and was true to myself.

Following my inner knower is a muscle I have to keep exercising, because it’s rarely convenient. She likes to go against the grain, and that makes her both endearing and frustrating, like a toddler, only one with years of experience, insight, conviction, and perspective. So, maybe not so much like a toddler. Maybe more like some other stereotype—a hippie, a bohemian, a ne’er-do-well, a self-absorbed artiste, a layabout. Because my inner knower almost always comes across as lazy, self-indulgent, and irresponsible, on the surface. But she’s not. She’s just serving a deeper purpose, one that has to do with developing the soul, growing as a human being, becoming more myself, and experiencing life richly.

Just in the past couple of weeks, my inner knower has had to deal with conversations like these:

  • My habits of mind say, “It’s Sunday. You should be productive today.” My inner knower says “No. You need to go to the park and cut pictures out of magazines.”
  • My tax bill says, “You should sacrifice some of your writing time so you can do more income-generating work.” My inner knower says, “You need to stay on the path you’re on. You can be creative about this.”
  • Some insidious voice says, “You need to sacrifice your own best interests to accommodate other people’s convenience.” My inner badass says “Are you kidding me?! Step aside while I pull out my Tommy gun.” (Wow, I didn’t know my inner spirit had a Tommy gun till I wrote that just now. I’m pretty pacifist, so I’m both horrified and impressed.)

The thing is, she’s right. I can tell because when I don’t do what she says, I get depressed, and life feels like a burden. When I do do what she says, the world seems open to me. I’m alive again.

In her great book Finding Your Own North Star, Martha Beck talks about the debilitating pain she gets when she doesn’t do what her inner knower tells her to do. She says “I certainly hope that you don’t have as antagonistic a relationship with your body as I used to have with mine. I hope you don’t develop shooting pains and embarrassing rashes every time you step off your true path. Most people don’t. For the majority of my clients, their physical reactions to life choices are much more subtle—sometimes barely noticeable. But they are most decidedly there.” I quote this for you because I’m in Martha’s fun club: when I don’t do what my inner knower tells me to do, my brain chemistry freaks out and does what it can to incapacitate me and generally make me miserable. Stick, carrot—whatever works, I suppose.

But they used canaries to test coal mines for a reason. Sensitive freaks like me and Martha Beck are just extreme versions of normal people. Jamie Ridler once called it “having a super-powerful inner compass.” But everyone has an inner compass, right? It’s just that for some people, their inner compass points them toward things like “become an investment banker” or “marry a millionaire,” and so their struggles are different. But all of us are better off when we can find a way to go in the directions that our inner compass points. When we do, we’re more alive. We’re more ourselves. We’re absolutely more creative. We make possibilities that wouldn’t be there otherwise.

So your teachers rock. Mine do, anyway. But the best thing for you about your teachers is that they point you toward your own inner wisdom. They resonate with something amazing in you. They help you hear, they help you follow. You say “yes.” You don’t know what will happen. But you know you’re living your real life.

Play

Originally published April 18, 2012 at Creative Dream Journals.

Creative people need to play with their medium. Writers play with settings and characters and words, painters play with color and line and texture, dancers play with movement and rhythm and shape. It’s from this time of play that more focused projects emerge. And creative play keeps the creative person happy and creative—you get new connections in the brain, you get the experience of flow, and you get to feel like your brain is skipping and your spirit is frolicking.

But right now I have another kind of play in mind. I’m writing this on the last day of South By Southwest, Austin’s annual festival of film, interactive technology, and music, music, music. I’m not a musician—or a filmmaker or technology person—but SXSW is some of the greatest playing I do all year. I spend the weekend wandering around the city watching my favorite musicians play and sing. I run into other fans who share my tastes, I meet friends, I chat, I eat, and I sit in the sun. I lose myself in other people’s playing—musicians, playing for themselves, one another, and me.

The kind of music I listen to and the town I live in have somehow come together to make a family, a network of musical friends. These musicians all know one another, are in and out of each other’s lives, and sleep on each other’s couches when they’re in town for the festival. They’re all fans of each other’s music, and when they converge in one place, they join in on each other’s songs, making a festival of personality and sound. It’s like Pepperland.

It reinvigorates me. It inspirits me. Happifies me. Leads me to make up words. Inspires me to write.

An interviewer once asked one of my favorite musicians to tell him what music inspired his songwriting. This songwriter is a music fan with a long list of musicians he admires. But he told that interviewer that his songs more often come from movies he watches than from music he listens to. And his songs inspire my writing. And so on.

Martha Beck encourages a creativity technique she calls The Kitchen Sink, which boils down to this: when you’re stuck or frustrated, do a whole bunch of unrelated things and see where they take you. I do this even when I’m not stuck or frustrated, just because it feels so good and is so good for me. I sink down into right-brain floaty space, where I follow my impulses. It looks like this: I read books about personality type, peruse Johnny Depp fan sites, look out the window and watch the treetops and clouds dancing with the wind, look at a picture-book of 1960s advertisements, get in the car and go buy food I don’t usually eat, and spend some time people-watching. In other words, I play.

It’s good to play on my own projects. But this kind of playing, the SXSW/Kitchen Sink kind of playing, is about getting outside my own main gig and into an even more right-brainy place of wandering, meandering, floating, making connections, seeing different kinds of things from new perspectives. It’s like clouds drifting, changing shape, doing slow somersaults, coming together, sticking together, coming apart and sticking again to make new and bigger clouds. Moving, moving, moving, drifting, and things come together.

Play is all there is, I want to write, as yet another brilliant singer-songwriter closes her set and the audience gets up for beer and food and CDs. It’s one of those statements that isn’t true, but is, in the moment—the kind of moment when everything that really matters comes together, the kind when you know that this—this—is what it’s all about.

So I thank my musicians, because their playing helps me play. My favorite musicians, Storyhill and Carrie Elkin, have introduced me to so many others who make for me (and for them) a musical community. Here are a few of them:Danny Schmidt, Sam Baker, Raina Rose, Justin Roth, A. J. Roach, John Fulbright,Dustin Welch, Chuck E. Costa, Robby Hecht, Devon Sproule, Paul Curreri, andAnthony DaCosta. To all of them, and to you: long may you play.

Brave

Originally published March 2, 2012, at Creative Dream Journals.

“Writing is like driving at night in the fog. You can only see as far as your headlights, but you can make the whole trip that way.” – E. L. Doctorow

I had to start off with that quote because it’s the only way to be honest about my story. It’s too easy, with the conventions of narrative and memoir, to say, “I quit my career to pursue a creative life” or “I decided to move across the country and start a freelancing business” or “I decided that I would work part time for clients and part time on my own writing”—as if I had some kind of plan, as if these “decisions” were conscious conclusions born of logical analysis and practical reason rather than the unanticipated outcomes of inner prodding, sudden intuition, and continual experimentation.

The truth is messy, and E. L. Doctorow’s quote captures it perfectly. It’s an inspiring quote–it means you don’t have to have a plan, you don’t have to be able to see that far into your own future to be able to move forward. And it’s a daunting quote. As we all know if we’ve ever driven at night in the fog—perhaps on unfamiliar roads, perhaps through the mountains—it’s stressful. You have to be on high alert at every moment, paying close attention, all your senses at the ready to spot the truck that suddenly appears out of nowhere and the turn in the road that could either take you where you want to go or spin you off deeper into the fog.

In 2009, I left my stable career as a college professor and moved away from Ohio, where I had lived for six years. I had no plan. I had only a little savings. What I had were vague ideas. I had been thinking about this change for nearly four years, and I had devoted a lot of those four years to “What am I going to do?” in both its panicky and its practical forms. I had a sense that writing and editing might be good directions for me to go, and also that some kind of part-time or non-career-oriented (“working in a bookstore”) job might make sense, too. And that’s what I had: no plan, but a set of ideas that felt right.

Now, in 2012, I live in Austin, Texas, where part of my work is freelance editing and writing for clients, and part it is writing my first book, which I sold a couple of months ago to an excellent publisher for very little money. For the three years between then and now, I’ve been driving through the fog at night. Now the sun is coming up, but the fog hasn’t dissipated—or some other metaphor to say that I’m not, at the moment, in a state of high alert and abject terror, but I am still in transition. I still don’t know just where I’m headed. I still have ideas.

And so finally I come to the real topic of this post: Courage. Confidence. Bravery. Throughout this journey, kind people have sometimes told me that they think I’m brave. In response, I make my usual joke about the fine line between bravery and foolishness—or maybe I try to explain that I felt like I had no choice; that this was the only way forward for me. But I like hearing them call me brave, and I take it in. It’s good for me—a heroic version of my story to counter the sense of bewildered scrambling that’s my usual go-to.

This month, “brave” came together for me. Jamie Ridler, the owner of this blog, encouraged contributors to write about courage. Joe, a colleague from my professor days, visited Austin and told me over crepes that it was incredibly brave to break free from academia’s “find a job and retire there” culture, to think about what makes me happy, and to act on it.

And then what made it all click: two friends independently reframed the meaning of brave for me. In an e-mail message, Erika told me, “Your commitment to being who you are even when you have doubts, concerns, etc. is what real confidence looks like. Sounds crazy, I know, but the confident ones stay true to themselves even when doubt is present.” Colleen said, “People admire you for being true to yourself, even when it is hard. For expressing your feelings, even when there are tears. For saying what is on your mind, and for thinking deeply about your life and what it means.”

All this, and Erika’s and Colleen’s words especially, have made me rethink brave. They’ve made me rethink insecure, too. Usually, when people say “brave,” “courageous,” or “confident,” I picture some kind of Prince Valiant, dauntlessly going forward with his chest out and his mind clear, certain in his every action and decisive in his opinions. Or maybe I picture a runway model, poised and commanding: “You will admire me.” But that’s not what “brave” is. That’s not even what “confident” is. Not for me, not now.

Years ago, at her PhD defense, my sister Leslie took the opportunity to thank the many people who had helped her along the way. I remember her thanking our parents for their love and support and then adding, with her wry smile, “I just thought of this—I’d also like to thank my parents for a certain stubbornness that I think has served me well in graduate school.”

I think that for me, that “certain stubbornness”—a family trait whose friendly face is perseverance, dedication, focus, and commitment—is what brave looks like. The kind of brave I am, the kind of confident I am, comes with a variety-pack of fear, including insecurity, uneasiness, terror, worry, hypervigilance, panic, self-consciousness, and fun-filled images of “old, sick, alone, and broke”–or worse, “burden to my family.”

But I’m stubborn. I stick with it anyway. I have an inner pull toward authenticity that won’t let go; I’d disappear without it. The path of courage, of confidence, of bravery, for me, isn’t about going forward fearlessly. It’s about going forward stubbornly—continually returning to the path, continually finding new ways to return to it in the face of life’s obstacles. I just have to, so I do it. I find a way.

Brave isn’t what you feel—it’s what you do. You feel fear, you experience doubt, and you pay attention to what they tell you. But fear and doubt don’t run the show. You do. You’re true to who you are, and you do what you know to be right for you. You drive through the fog at night because the road calls you. You’re yourself—your whole self. And you’re brave.

Feedback: What’s helpful at different stages of a creative project?

Originally published January 19, 2012, at Creative Dream Journals.

Valuable feedback

For me, valuable feedback comes from people who are totally on board with what I want to do and just want to help me do it. This is the kind of feedback I try to give to other writers. I think of myself as on the writer’s side—their ally—and my goal is to figure out what they’re trying to do and help them do it.

The contrast—feedback that isn’t that helpful to me—comes from people who position themselves as challengers. Sometimes, challengers might question the value of the project or disagree with the way I’m thinking about it. Other times, their feedback might be along the lines of “Why don’t you do what I want you to do, or what I find valuable, or what I would do if it was my project, or what I’m used to seeing from other writers?”

When I’m working on a creative project, I’m interested in developing it, not altering it to be something different. Just like a person—human beings are better off when you support them as they more fully become their own unique, amazing selves.

Feedback at the beginning of a project

In the beginning stages of a creative project, I’m very very selective about who I seek feedback from. A new original project is like a little sprout making its way up from the ground, powerful with potential, but vulnerable. It needs warmth and care and time to grow solid and strong. In the early stages, the only feedback that’s helpful to me is “What a cool idea; here are some possible resources for you.”

At the beginning, a project is really between me and me. There’s something I’m trying to figure out and develop within my own mind and spirit. My engagement with the outside world is all about exploration—taking things in that help me learn. The feedback that matters is internal: What’s speaking to me? What feels promising? What’s drawing my attention? What do I see in the outside world that resonates with what I’m trying to figure out?

Feedback at the end of a project

The moment I’m in right now is the end stage of a project. I have a book that I started long ago, and I’m fortunate to have a publisher for it; now my job is to finish writing and revising it for publication.

At this stage, I know what I want to say, my ideas are solid and well-formed, and the project is fully fleshed out. I’ve learned what I wanted to learn, I know what I think, and I’m confident about it. Now, the project is to communicate what I’ve learned and what I think to other people.

At this stage, feedback feels like collaboration. I’ve been honing this project mostly on my own, and now other people are invested in it. My editor, and the press he represents, have years of experience and expertise in helping books reach readers—helping people communicate. So when he tells me, “I think you should make x, y, and z changes,” a little voice inside me says, “I don’t want to. It’s my project, and I like it as it is.” But a stronger voice now says, “I want to communicate. I want to reach my audience. And this person has ideas about how I can do that effectively. Excellent!”

Communication isn’t the same as self-expression. Communication is about reaching people, and it’s cooperative. The image in my head is an equation: feedback = audience. My editor is representing a particular audience, a particular set of people who we both hope will buy and read my book. To communicate with my readers, I have to think about where they’re at, and how I can share my ideas with them in a way that they will find compelling.

I still hold on to the core of my vision. It’s almost impossible not to at this point, because the book has grown up into something solid—it has its own reality now. But it’s solid enough now to interact with the outside world, and that means conversation and relationship. Now, feedback means that I’m connecting, I’m communicating, I’m reaching other people. And in the end (but maybe only in the end) that’s what I want my creative work to do.

Creative Dreams and Money (raw beginnings)

Originally published November 14, 2011, at Creative Dream Journals.

I want to write to you about money and creative callings. But this topic is so full and so present for me that my thoughts and questions don’t yet cohere into anything like a focused blog post. The place to begin, then, is with my disparate thoughts and questions. For now, I’ve organized them just enough to give you some broad categories. Please chime in! What are your thoughts and experiences on any of these topics, or on the broad topic of money and creative dreams?

The Day Job

  • Day jobs and the creative process. Creativity happens during down time, when our minds are free to wander. We get our best ideas during breaks from periods of focused effort. We work hard on our creative project, and then we take a nap or a shower or a walk, and ideas come to us. But when we’re working a day job, our minds can end up devoting all that great unconscious creative energy to the concerns of the day job rather than to our own creative projects. Creative work, then, requires us to free our minds from our day jobs. It requires us to take a mental break from our paid work, then shift focus to our creative project, then take a break from it to allow our ideas to gestate, then return to focused work on our creative project, and then return to our day job. How do we manage our lives so that we can do all that?
  • The happy day job. How do we find or create day jobs that we love, that feed our creative lives, or even day jobs that we just like well enough and that don’t take away from our creative lives?
  • Self-employment as a day job. If you’re self-employed in your day job, how does that affect your ability to pursue a separate creative calling?
  • Distributing our energy. We can put our energy into finding or creating or developing or tailoring our day jobs so that they support us financially and creatively. And we can put our energy into developing our creative careers so that we can earn money from them. And we can put energy into actual creativity—writing, painting, dancing, making music, however we express ourselves creatively. How do we decide where to focus our attention on any given day, week, month, or year?

Making Money from Creative Work

  • Money dreams. “Do What You Love and the Money Will Follow.” How has this dream played out for you?
  • Creating and business. If you’re trying to earn money from your creative work, how do you manage the different requirements of creating your art, music, or writing versus running a business that sells your art, music, or writing?
  • Different logics. Often, being in business involves being strategic and goal oriented. We might develop marketing strategies, work to establish ourselves as leaders, set goals, and prioritize sales. The creative process often involves a more process-oriented logic: we follow the muse, go where the project leads, do what’s intrinsically motivating, and allow things to unfold naturally. When does it make sense to follow which kind of logic?
  • Self-employment as a creative worker. How do we learn how to sell our creative work and manage a business built around our creative work?
  • Hiring help. When do we hire help with the business side of creativity, and what kind of help do we hire?

Money, Creativity, and the Life Cycle

  • Waiting for retirement. What happens when you postpone seriously pursuing your creative work until retirement?
  • Parenting. If you’re pursuing a creative calling, keeping a day job, and parenting, then you’re working three careers. How do you manage?
  • Gender, marriage, and family. What’s it like to pursue a creative calling as a single/married woman/man with/without children?
  • Age, creative work, and money. What’s involved in being a “starving artist” in your 20s versus in your 40s or your 60s?
  • Different strategies for different parts of the journey. How do we structure our creative careers differently as our lives change? For example, at different points of our lives, we might pursue a creative calling full time, we might go into debt to support a creative calling, we might work unrelated day jobs, or we might pursue careers that put our creative skills and talents to work on other people’s projects.

Struggle and Costs

  • Debt. When do we go into debt to pursue our creative dreams? What kind of debt do we accrue? How do we manage debt?
  • Managing time and energy. Pursuing a creative calling and a day job means pursuing two careers, in addition to our personal lives. How do we manage our time and energy so that we’re meeting our needs and staying happy and healthy?
  • Financial worry. When our creative callings cost money, or send us into debt, or entail the uncertain income and increased costs of self-employment, we can get into a habit of worry. What do we do about this?
  • Learning by example. Sometimes, the stories we hear about creativity and money run to extremes: it’s all either “starving artists” or “the universe pays me to do what I love.” But many creative people’s journeys are more complex than this. What true stories have you heard? What stories could you tell?
  • Compromise. Sometimes we compromise our creative dreams for increased financial stability. Sometimes, we compromise our financial security for the sake of our creative dreams. Our day jobs may feed our creative work or take away from our creative work or both. How much of these different kinds of compromise is wise? How much is necessary?
  • Work that costs money. While we hope to make money from our creative work, initially it often costs money, and this period of investment can go on for a long time. How do we decide how much money to invest in our creative dreams?
  • Faith and trust. What roles do faith and trust play in the serious pursuit of a creative calling? How do you nurture your faith? What enables you to trust? Are you ever reluctant to trust that things will be okay? Is it ever unwise to act on faith? Are you ever better off not trusting and not having faith?

 

Am I following my bliss if I don’t feel blissful?

Originally published October 29, 2011 at Creative Dream Journals.

Many of us who are following a creative calling resonate with Joseph Campbell’s advice to “follow your bliss.” But following your bliss doesn’t always feel blissful. How do you know when you’re on the right track and when it’s time to rethink?

I used to be a professor, and now I’m involved with online communities of people who pursued an academic calling and for different reasons are reconsidering that path. Many of these people have come to resent the “follow your bliss” mantra. It was given to them as career advice, and many of them heard it like this: “You’re passionate about French literature (or East Asian history, or ethical philosophy), so pursue that. Keep studying that, get your PhD, and a career as a professor will come together for you.” They followed that advice, imagining a glorious future immersed in the life of the mind. But then things started to go wrong. Maybe graduate school was a nightmare. Maybe the academic job market was so tight that after years of trying, they were never able to get a job as a professor. Maybe they were able to get that job, but found themselves miserable in it. Maybe they eventually lost interest in their field of study and felt stuck in a career that didn’t speak to them any more. Where was the bliss they were promised? Wouldn’t they have been happier if they had done something more practical?

Following a creative calling, too, can bring up questions about the bliss factor. Maybe I love making art, or writing, or singing, but to pursue it seriously, I have to compromise other things that make me happy. How much sacrifice is worth it? A touring musician might give up the stability of home and family to keep on pursuing a musical calling. An artist might work a string of day jobs that drain her energy to support the art that feeds her soul. A writer might sacrifice her personal life so that she can work full time and finish her novel on nights and weekends. An actor might find himself in middle age and without any kind of financial stability because he prioritized his unpaid or poorly paid creative work.

So what becomes of bliss? Is following your bliss a cruel joke?

The only answer I know is to use that word “bliss” as a kind of navigational tool, like a compass. We have to keep on returning to it, keep checking in, keep adjusting our course. We have to remember what following our bliss really means—to remember that French literature, or being a professor, or publishing a novel, or making a living as actor, is not the real goal. The real goal really is bliss: happiness, creative fulfillment, self-expression, and a rich life that nourishes all of who we are.

So we make sacrifices to pursue what we love—we take risks, we give up resources, we endure training, we confront fears. But we consistently check in with ourselves. Am I happy? Do I feel like myself? Do I have what I want and what I need? I know what I wanted a year ago, but what do I really want now? And if things feel off, then we adjust course.

Adjusting course probably doesn’t mean giving up the things you love. Instead, it means finding ways to have all the things you love. So you keep on reading French literature, or teaching, or making art, or acting. But you don’t sacrifice the rest of your life to do that–you remember that you’re a whole person with your own unique human needs, and you tend to all of them. And you don’t assume that there’s only one way to be happy doing what you love, or only one career path or lifestyle that will allow you to do what you love. You use your creativity and your support system to make for yourself a life that incorporates all the things you need and love. It’s hard work. But if you keep on adjusting course, keep on checking in with yourself and taking your needs seriously, and keep on making real happiness your priority, then maybe the bliss will be in the journey.

What are your experiences following your bliss?

A Treasure Chest of Your Past

Originally published October 5, 2011 at Creative Dream Journals.

Some interviewers are truly excellent at getting to the core of the person they’re interviewing. Not long ago, I saw an interview like that—the interviewer, Isabelle Giordano, was so thoughtful about her questions that she was able to get to the heart of the person she was interviewing. As a bonus, the interviewee was Johnny Depp, who’s terrifically thoughtful. You can check out this 1993 interview here and here.

Midway through the interview, Giordano opened a bag and started pulling out things that she knew would have meaning for Depp—CDs, particular movies, books, photos, and other things that represented his passions or turning points in his life. He said “This is like Christmas!” By asking him to reflect upon these “Christmas presents,” she connected him, herself, and viewers with his inner life, with what’s meaningful to him, with the foundations of his identity and his creativity.

A treasure chest of meaning. What if we all had our own treasure chest full of life’s gifts to inspire us and remind us who we are and what matters to us?

So I composed my own. What would be in my treasure chest? What people, books, things, places, and images would I want to gather together to represent the important parts of my life history?

Here are a few of the things I came up with:

  • A picture of Nepal, where I lived for three months during college
  • Tubes of oil paint
  • A photo of my oldest niece, who I took care of when she was a baby
  • A picture of Devil’s Lake State Park, in Wisconsin, where I used to go a lot during graduate school to think and to get inspired
  • CDs of Bill Moyers’ interviews with Joseph Campbell, which inspired my first book
  • Tama Kieves’ book This Time I Dance, which was a spiritual lifeline when I was crumbling out of my old job and wanting to go in a completely different direction that I couldn’t foresee
  • Monet’s “haystacks” series of paintings
  • A postcard of my college

The list goes on—my favorite music at different points in my life, a couple of movies that affected me deeply, people who inspire me, things that have meant something to me.

If you like this idea, you could make your own list like this. You could write about what the different things in your treasure chest mean to you, and you could even gather everything up and put it in a box to leaf through sometimes for recollection, re-centering, and creative inspiration.

How to Be a Fangirl (or boy)

Originally published September 11, 2011, at Creative Dream Journals.

I have been a fangirl my whole life. At the age of four, I began a three-year obsession with The Monkees. I could sing all their songs by heart. Every afternoon, I sat wide-eyed and mesmerized by reruns of their TV shows. I daydreamed about The Monkees.

Now I’m forty-one, and I’m still like this. Mostly musicians, sometimes actors, occasionally authors. Mostly men, occasionally women. They captivate me for a while, and I listen to their music over and over, watch all their movies, memorize their books, and spend hours searching YouTube for interviews with them.

But I’m proud of my fangirldom, because I know exactly what I’m doing. Once upon a time, when I was very young, I heard this advice: “Women should become the men they want to marry.” I thought this was brilliant. Because what we’re drawn to, what we’re attracted to, is really ourselves—deep, essential dimensions of ourselves that we want to more fully integrate.

So my obsession with The Monkees was about humor and energy and friendship. My teenage obsession with David Bowie was about crossing boundaries—breaking out of old confines and moving into forbidden territory. In my twenties, The Beatles were all about my creativity—some colorful, right-brain freedom to let my mind wander and create beauty. Right now, I’m cultivating a sense of centeredness, confidence in expressing my own unique perspective, authority over the conditions of my life, and a natural commitment to my own truth—and I can tell you anything you want to know about Johnny Depp.

So how to be a fangirl? Just give in, as you would to any other passion. Find the people who draw your attention, the people you admire, and immerse yourself. Absorb them. Find out what it is about them that’s so captivating, and know, without a doubt, that those qualities are your own. They’re who you really are—the aspects of you that you want to more fully express, the colors of you that you want to brighten, your greatest gifts and truest purposes, about to come into the sun.

Travels with Socks

Travels with Charley cover

Today on my Facebook page, I posted this:

Early in high school, my English class read an excerpt of John Steinbeck’s Travels with Charley, his memoir about driving around the country in 1960 with his poodle, Charley, in search of America. I fell in love with it and dreamed of doing the same thing. In the meantime, I was inspired to write “Travels with Socks,” a little memoir-essay about my family’s move from Hatboro, Pennsylvania, to Schaumburg, Illinois, with our drugged-out dog Socks when I was thirteen.

I just recently finished reading the entire book, and it still affects me the same way. Other books sometimes make me feel like writing, but this is the only one I’ve met that that actually makes me write while I’m reading it. I read a few sections; I pick up my pen and notebook and spill out words; I read more; I write more. This is one of those sacred books for me.

A friend of mine commented that she’d like to read “Travels with Socks,” which inspired me to dig through my files–and I found it! Fresh from 1985. Here it is:

The first thing I noticed on climbing into the car to come to Chicago was my drugged-out dog staring at me with glazed eyes and a saliva-covered tongue hanging out the side of his panting mouth. The second thing I noticed was that his right front leg, along with a substantial part of the rest of his forequarters, was dangling off the car seat and that, due to the incline of the back seat of our car, the rest of him was soon to join it. Pulling him back onto the seat, I glanced at his face and noted his trusting, innocently cheerful, “Gee, Kel, are we having fun yet?” gaze, questioningly fixed on my face. Looking into that face reminded me once more of how much he resembles Odie. Reading my mind like he always does, he looked the other way and put his head down and soon thereafter began to snore.

By this time, the rest of my family had settled themselves in the car, and, at the sound of the engine starting, we were on our way out of our driveway, Hatboro, and the entire Philadelphia area, across the Pennsylvania border and the Appalachians, and into the flatlands that epitomize the Midwest. I gazed out the window and wondered what I would find in this alien land called Schaumburg. My friends had reassured me, “You’re nice; you’ll make a lot of friends there.” I had thanked them for the compliment, but I still wondered. After all, this was the Mid-West. My vision of an area of center-city-type Chicago surrounded by miles of wheat fields and wild grass was roughly equivalent to native Chicagoans’ vision of “the East” as the Bronx, New York. Some enlightened dreamers also pictured “Bloomie’s” as a cubic mile of expensive clothes and silver patterns (not too far off from the truth, either). Anyway, I was pretty scared. I was coming from an area where people said they were going “out west” for vacation, and they meant Pittsburgh. To me, Chicago was simply home of the world’s tallest building and, at that time, the world’s worst baseball team. What kind of people could live there?

These were the thoughts running through my head over the three days we spent traveling to our new residence. In the spaces when my mind was sick of thinking, I listened to my radio and/or talked to Socks (the name of my tongue-lolling dog). The fact that his inner eyelids were closed the entire time, which gave him this buffoonish, semi-stoned appearance, tempered my morbidly philosophical attitude a bit, and I found great solace in relating to him my life story and that of himself. He has the best sense of humor of anyone I’ve known, and what a listener! And he always agreed with me.

His (and our) first “sniff” of the apartment we were to stay at while the previous owners moved out of our house revealed his (and again, our) distaste for it. For the entire three weeks we stayed there, he followed one of us around constantly, and if we looked in his direction, we would be confronted with a face filled with dismay that seemed to say, “What have I done to merit this rat-hole of a place which was obviously last inhabited by an unclean Doberman and in which I do’t even have my own couch to relax and unwind on?” I agreed.

I don’t really remember the day-to-day happenings of that era of my life, except that each day seemed the same. I mostly remember sitting on my bed listening to Don Geronimo and playing repeated games of solitaire while the rest of the family watched TV. Come to think of it, I must have spent close to six hours a day playing solitaire. I had names for the cards. And I was getting sick of hearing “Windy city weather” jingled at me all day long.

I didn’t see many people during this time, outside of my family. I remember coming back into the apartment after lugging Socks across the grass from the sidewalk (Domestic animals weren’t permitted to touch foot to the 40 feet of grass between the door of our apartment and the sidewalk, so we had to carry him across it. This was a spectacle in itself; Socks weighs 35 pounds) and dazedly looking at my mother and proudly proclaiming, “Mom, I made contact with the outside world! I waved at a truck driver, and he waved back!” She carefully looked at me and said, “Kelly, I’m getting a little worried about you…”

Our first day in our new house was beyond belief. I realize now that had we had a movie camera at the time, many a person could have been entertained well when it came our time for showing home movies. Walking in, the first thing we noticed was the expanse of color. Altogether, six rooms were covered by this ultra-bright, knock-your-socks-off, electric royal blue carpet, counting the stairs and the upstairs hall as one room. Two bedrooms were chocolate brown wall to wall. The kitchen was enveloped in red-and-green plaid wallpaper. One bedroom (with a super-blue floor) was painted the darkest light blue imaginable, with homemade, built-in, ultra-bright, knock-your-socks-off, electric, fire-red shelves. My room had homemade Noah’s Art curtains. Despite all this, we managed to console ourselves with the knowledge of the eventual arrival of more serene wall, floor, and window coverings.

At this point, my parents had gone back to Philly for a few days to supervise the movers, and my grandmother was staying with my sister, Socks, and me. As all of our furniture was still at our old house, we rented three cots, a card table and chairs, and a television. With these exquisite furnishings, we made our existence in our new house somewhat tolerable. In fact, the only real problem was lights. At one point, my grandmother came upstairs and found my sister and me both in our respective closets doing our homework because there were built-in lights in them. They were two of five electric lights in our eleven-room house. Two of the others also resided in closets; the fifth was a red and white stained-glass hanging lamp in the kitchen (to match the wallpaper).

Things improved when my parents came home, with the furniture close behind them. Soon after, wallpaper and carpets were ordered. By now, school had begun, I had made friends, and there was a noted improvement in the condition of Socks. Having been kicked of his temporary doggy-downer habit, he was markedly more cheerful (if, indeed, possible), especially when his sofa arrived.

Now we have been living here 2 years and 5 months, and it is home. Socks has positioned himself so that his tail is fanning my face. Now he turns around and gives me a look that I by now know says, “Cookie time, Kelly,” so I get up and get him a dog biscuit—large-sized because it makes him feel macho. Say good night, Socks. Good night, Socks.