I’ve had countless ideas in my 49 years.
I’ve had countless ideas in my 49 years.
Some I dive into headfirst. Others haunt my mind for years until I finally gather the courage to try them, reluctantly let them go, or my uncooperative body makes that decision for me. My ideas take their sweet time to blossom, unfolding alongside the messy business of being human.
Here’s what that actually looks like:
I had a baby.
While nursing said baby at home, I conceived a musical about Britney Spears. So naturally I cast my infant in the promotional materials. Me as Britney, him as her son. Because motherhood clearly hadn’t compromised my judgment.
We wrote that ridiculous musical. It was actually brilliant, but still ridiculous. Rehearsed it. Flew to NYC to perform it. Brought my now eighteen month old to New York for a month of performances, because nothing says reasonable life choices like combining toddler management with off-Broadway ambitions.
Won best actor, somehow.
Couldn’t collect the award because illness kept me bedridden. My body’s favorite party trick: impeccably timed betrayal.
Went home to Northern California. Staged the musical again. Got sick again.
Tried for another pregnancy. And again. Got sick. Another miscarriage. My fourth, maybe fifth. I’ve honestly lost count. My body has never been reliable, except in its unreliability.
Revived the Britney musical. Had an idea. Explored adoption. Abandoned the adoption process, something felt wrong. Accepted that one child would complete our family.
Staged the musical again. Had an idea. Got a dog. Simpler than another child, though not really.
Performed the musical again. Had to stop when pregnancy complications resurfaced. Battled the theater over rights and royalties. Won.
Successfully carried my daughter to term, with help from an IV superfood that strengthened my body enough to nurture her. My veins: reluctant participants in the miracle of life.
Had another idea. Wrote another musical. Got sick. Predictably. Staged the musical. Sold the musical. Stayed sick.
You get the picture.
A stop-motion film of creation interrupted by biological mutiny.
Sometimes my ideas seem deceptively simple at first. It’s impossible to predict where they’ll lead. They transform. They collide with illness. They survive anyway, usually in a form I didn’t originally intend, which is often better.
I just create while life keeps happening. I will create up until the point life stops happening. This is what helps me cope with a body that constantly challenges my brain.
Make art during tantrums. Create while tethered to IVs. Have the idea in the middle of the night and write it on your hand because you can’t find a pen.
I have countless ideas. Life has its own agenda. We negotiate, though life clearly has the upper hand in these discussions.
It hasn’t won yet.
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I understand your struggle. I am a very creative person who has struggled with the ups and downs of fibromyalgia and autoimmune thyroid disease for over 30 years. At one time I was diagnosed with rapid cycling bi-polar but now it has been recategorised as Complex PTSD, and the correct type of trauma counselling using journalling has helped me get over many of the symptoms but my creativity is stuck in a rut at the moment. I admire you for carrying on with your creative journey.