Last weekend I made a new backyard friend.
And I got to thinking.
Creative types like to stand out from the masses, be individualistic, unique—emulated. For many (myself included) we often fail. Artistic creatures, writers in particular, struggle from cradle to mobility-scooter, forever trying to define their voice, tame their inner critic and keep the tap flowing. The challenge is never met—not completely, for the battle is constant, not an obstacle to be overcome, rather a degenerative life-long malady, one managed only by diet, exercise and bourbon.
We strive for exclusivity, singularity, distinctiveness.
We settle for, meh.
And often miss the mark.
Striving for nirvana is enticing, until our reach eventually outdistances our grasp. The more we extend, the greater the risk, the likelier the plummet.
And when we plummet, we descend at light speed, a collision course with reality, creation silenced, inspiration extinguished.
But you takes your chances.
Settling for low-risk, safe haven endeavors limits our potential. Instead of broadening our creative playground and embracing our instincts, we restrict and confine progress. While chance may favor a prepared mind, it also expands it, electrifies it, opens new realms, pathways and destinations. A mind stretched, never returns to its original size—at least that’s what I’ve been told.
Unique be the spirit that drives you.
Or put another way, individualism is a ‘work in process’. Without passion, life’s mundane assembly line will snare your essence and entomb your dreams faster than a squirrel on Red Bull. However you interpret it, spontaneous, unrestrained creativity lies in the depths of that great chasm separating mediocrity and leaf of faith.
Unleash the individual within.
Be like my furry new friend—an air-guitar playin’, funky-tailed, backyard squirrel.
Until next time,