Binderama60for60

This one’s gonna be messy.

I’ve been grateful to spend much of my career being creative. Writing, design, illustration, theater, film and video, live events. Mostly business stuff. Corporate. Some award-winning, some esoteric. Most of it was never seen by more than a few thousand peeps, rarely in the light of day. Or night. Or ever.

Even so, it’s been a satisfying career. But I never did make “a big great movie,” as the Indigo Girls put it. Okay yes, I totally misrepresented and mangled their words, intent and more. Seriously, I only just learned that the actual words are “B-grade movie.” I claim creative license.

What is Creativity?

I don’t know. I don’t care. It doesn’t matter. What’s the meaning of life? Or the health insurance marketplace. Or extra guac. Or another margarita (yes, please).

It’s just a thing. Everyone is creative in some way. Whether you decorate the porch for Halloween, embellish your Mom’s chili recipe, dress up your cat as Sabrina Carpenter or lie under oath at a congressional hearing. Dang, I gotta stop being so cynical in this post. Wait, maybe cynicism plays a role in creativity. Huh.

Some people have a lot of it. I’m glad to have known a few of them who’ve carved out some spiffy careers for themselves and lots of fans. A few have gone far with their creativity, really far, builders and CEOs with global recognition. Others–some of the most creative people I’ve known–have not. Did not. Won’t. Sorry. I’m with you. L’chaim.

Here’s what I do know. Creativity is messy. And a gift. I was lucky to have been born into a creative lot. Our Parents nurtured our creativity generously. They themselves were also touched with the bug, in many ways. Dad was a writer, photographer and journalist. Mom was a puppeteer, a seamstress and a teacher. Both raconteurs. For Christmas, we Boys got sketch pads, pens, pencils and markers. And a Gameboy. All along, we got positive though critical reinforcement from the Folks.

Back in pre-school, age 4-ish, I got raves over some Christmas project I’d done, involving a muffin pan or an egg shell. Mom wrote about it in her diary. In second grade, I won a poster contest and was awarded 31 scoops from the Baskin-Robbins in a strip mall east of 123 in Fairfax. (Photo below.) When my third-grade teacher, Ms. Cherry, read one of my stories aloud, she said I was a very good writer and I should pursue it. As a sophomore in high school, I painted a Big Mac onto the front window of the Vienna McDonalds. It took me four days, I made $20. Lots of hard, valuable and creative lessons learned there. Don’t let yourself get screwed. But you still will, on occasion; deal and move on.

In college, an English professor critiqued an essay I’d scribed and gave me some advice. His comment blew my mind. Seriously, I saw the light, like a door opening into an all-new, super shiny dimension. It unlocked all new creative perspectives for me, not only in writing but in all sorts of art and expression.

I sure as hell wish I could remember what he said to me. I’d always planned to thank him in my Oscar acceptance speech, but I don’t remember his name either. What’s the opposite of creativity? Reality? Aging? Shut up.

A few years back, a former boss sent me a note, commenting on a book I’d just self-published. Paraphrasing: “You are one of the most creative people I have ever known. Do you know what that means for me to say that?” This guy’s career included running a $10+ billion-dollar travel and entertainment juggernaut, managing huge global creative teams of Imagineers, architects and ad agencies. Yeah, gobsmacked, and grateful for the shoutout.

So What Happened

Why didn’t I go as far as I wanted to with all these gifts and support and tools and advantages. One answer might be that I can be a demanding, egotistical, loner asshole at times. I’ve known a lot of assholes who went far, but I guess they were better at it than me.

As likely, there were other forces–real and imagined–telling me that I wasn’t good enough. That creativity isn’t a career. It’s not lucrative or sustainable. It’s healthier as a hobby, an avocation. Go get a real job.

In hindsight, I accept that I never tried hard enough or took enough risks or took my work seriously enough. I could have pushed harder, sold myself better. Or maybe, I should have been better, produced better stuff, proven myself with product. I didn’t make a deep enough commitment to an idea or a project; I’m too fickle, restless, shallow.

Demons!…though not with entirely unreasonable notions. I suppose I largely sided with the demons.

And I don’t discredit the role of luck and timing in all this. In everything.

How To Be Creative

You can’t. You don’t to it. It does you. When it’s ready.

My advice: give it time and room to grow inside you. Invite it. Let it well up. Wake up at night to take notes. Try to understand the vision even if you can’t see it yet. Be patient. Be lost. Be alert. In time, the context, content and creativity will force itself out of you. Onto a page or a canvas or a screen or whatever outlet is your jam!

It’ll burst, erupt, ignite, explode. Gotta love those violent, virtuous verbs. Messy!

But why take my advice.

I Tried

Before I started my first (and only) novel, it had been percolating inside me for years, oozing, bubbling, boiling. Then one day, it all came out. It just came. Wave after wave, like a refreshing all-out barf. It felt so good! Three weeks–and four cartons of Marlboro Lights–later, I was up to page 267. Characters were developed, conflicts defined, stakes set, a massive plot twist teased on that last page. Halfway home, I thought.

Yeah, well. I think this is a good time to tap the brakes. Let’s read it back and do a little editing. I mean, what’s even in here? Let’s see where this next chapter needs to go. I know how I want it to end, I just need to find a way there. Make sure the second half is as good as the first. These characters. Like that Jackson James character, is he still believable or relatable? Too arrogant? Does the story even need him? Or should he be the main character, in the first person omniscient? Where is this narrative voice even coming from? It’s a bloody piece of crap! (Demons.)

My Brother Tim, in an encouraging spirit, cautioned me that, “the world is full of half-finished novels. Just finish it.”

People who read the draft of the first half back then gave huge raves (which is why they were tapped to review it, I suppose). But I was stuck. I couldn’t stoke more conflict or keep the stakes escalating. In screenplays, it’s called a third-act problem. My confidence crumbled. I couldn’t, wouldn’t finish my half-finished novel.

I never did get beyond page 267. Good news: the 267 pages are in the cloud. So, suck on that, Future of Creativity! Fingers crossed it makes history, posthumously. Just like John Kennedy Toole. Who offed himself, sadly. Don’t be like him. Or David Foster Wallace or people that are so creative and tortured and unfulfilled that they off themselves.

Also, stop smoking.

Over the years, I have written three screenplays and a book. I had readings of two of the screenplays in New York, optioned one for a dollar, and now they are in the cloud to be savored for meta-eternity. (Back then, you’d print out your 120-page document and take it to Kinkos to have them run off a few dozen three-holed-punched-bound copies, and then you’d go to the other side of the store to get them shipped off to agents you’d flagged in the Writer’s Market catalog.)

The book I self-published back in 2020-something sold a few hundred copies, made it into Amazon’s top 10,000 for a while, and I haven’t sold one in months. With creativity, the journey is the passion. Sales and attention are so bourgeoisie. Sigh. Gulp. Guh.

Blank Canvasses

To some people, there is nothing more beautiful than a blank canvas or a blank page. Tabula rasa.

Fuck ’em.

To someone who aspires to be creative, blank spaces are a challenge. Setting aside my cynicism: yes, they can be exciting, but as often they can be agonizing, sometimes spiteful. They mock. Sure, in a month or a year they might become something. Maybe beautiful. Maybe not. Art, poetry, epiphanies, masterpieces. Or garbage.

I bought a bunch of mid-sized canvases yesterday. They’re the blank white variety, propped up under my dusty drafting table, across from my desk and next to where all the brushes and paints and markers and pencils are stocked. Those canvasses, they’re just staring at me. Staring through me. Staring! Snickering. Cruel…

…And now I am feeling that “something” bubbling up inside of me. I don’t know what it is yet. Might not know for a while. It might never come out. Still, I am putting those canvasses on notice. Tomorrow might be the day. Stand back and stand by! Prepare to be painted! And mounted and framed and hung. Or shredded. Or delivered to Goodwill. Or all of the above!

Why do we fill blank spaces? I think it’s like climbing a mountain: Because it’s there.

Process

Meh. You do you.

Traditions & Habits

Early on, I heard about writers who would be up at 4AM writing, and then they’d go off to do their day jobs. That was never me. Though I do spend a few hours on sleepless nights staring at the ceiling and brooding on words and themes and designs and just plain lexi-effluvia. I’ve actually sold lots of work based on those solitary, insomnia-charged sessions. Each one is now represented by a line underneath my eyes.

Every morning in 2021, I posted a haiku on my socials. I didn’t need a reminder; it just came out. Easy: put together 17 syllables to capture my mood and thoughts for the day. Sometimes I posted more than one; some days I kept the haiku private because it was too dark or too deep or I didn’t want it being introduced into evidence at my inevitable congressional hearing.

I highly recommend this exercise. Not only is it good for getting your head in gear, checking and expressing yourself, it’s also a grand way to learn to economize your words, to get to the meat of the thing.

That last sentence is a prime example of irony.

For one of the 60|60 posts coming up around Christmas, I’ll post a retrospective of the holiday cards I’ve been designing and sharing since 1994, my first year in New York. Looking back at some of them, I am catapulted into the best times of my life and the most challenging, lonely and lost. With the exception of a few years, these cards always start with a blank canvas. What does this Christmas mean to me right now? Who is in my life? What’s happened this year? It can be agonizing to find the right tone, the right message, the right visuals. Some years go down to the wire. Some are personal, others topical, others random. Some just suck. Some I still revisit, even after 20 or 30 years (2009 still cracks me up). Btw, one criterion for the card: Mary and I must be present in the art, even if hidden.

The 2025 cards are already getting printed, weeks ahead of schedule. Thanks to a little something called Bowzer. “OMG! You’re doing a Christmas card with your new dog on it? So creative!” As for my image in the card, this is the first I will be absent. Adulting. Or humility. Or this dog doesn’t need a supporting cast. You’ll see.

Armor

Ten or so years ago, a colleague–a seasoned creative director–pitched ideas to an internal team. They had notes, some not so constructive. The CD told me that they were devastated with the feedback. They’d broken into tears. I asked them what other creative outlets they had in their life, hoping to bolster and compliment their innate creative instincts. Nothing. “This job is how I am creative.” I wanted to cry, myself.

More unsolicited advice: Don’t go to work to be creative. Be creative to go to work. No matter what you do. Unless you’re keeping count (of hits, followers or books sales), others’ opinions don’t matter. Yes, in the creative profession, you’ll need to build consensus, but do not let other randos shit on your ideas.

You go be creative, love yourself and respect your work, and everyone else can fuck off. I think my cynicism is showing.

Almost lastly: People who like blank canvases also have no idea how hard it is to fill them. And share them.

A Mess

In closing: yes, I edited this piece, tried to steer it into some cohesion, positivity and purpose, trimmed it, even ran it by A.I. at the end. ChatGPT gave it raves, and a few notes but I don’t care. Now I am putting it out there, into the cloud, for as long as my credit card is renewed or until it gets tapped out.

On the bright side: I didn’t routinely capitalize the word creativity in this post. Nor did I use the term innovative anywhere. You are welcome.

Early drafts included a few words about storytelling. Yeah, no, not worth it. “Fetch is not going to happen!”

This one is messy, I warned you. I’m okay with that. Go get messy.

I Lied. There’s More

At the end of its review of a draft of this essay, ChatGPT offered up some advice.

“The only thing missing, perhaps, is a turn toward universality near the end — a brief moment where your story widens into insight for others. Something like:

‘Maybe creativity isn’t about making something lasting. Maybe it’s about staying awake to the urge, even if it never sees daylight.’”

Bot can talk some smack!

N.F.W!

I’m not going to let A.I. write the ending to this one. At the risk of sounding even more pretentious than I have throughout the rest of this lecture, I’ll say this:

Living a life of creativity is not to see or make “a big great movie,” but to live a big great life.