Always An Artist

Writing means asking myself questions to which I do not have an immediate answer. Whether I’m wondering what should happen after my hero gets out of prison or how to best describe an amusement park ride, there’s always some staring and tea-drinking involved as I wait for the answer to come. That’s okay. This is creativity. I ask, and wait, and wait, and wait, and then eventually something comes. I do it with stories and I do it with songs and with roleplaying adventures. Painters and sculptors and choreographers must do it also. There’s really no other way to make things.

Well, actually, there is. I can force it. Instead of waiting to hear what my protagonist does after prison, I can just make something up, something logical, since I know how the world works and the things people can do. Instead of waiting to really see the amusement park ride, I assign words to it that I normally associate with rides and fun, assign them skillfully using all the craft I’ve accumulated over the years. Then I reread what I’ve written and can’t figure out why it feels so stiff and dull and fake. Why isn’t this working? Have I forgotten how to write?

Sort of. The problem often starts when I’m not writing. I forget that everything works the same whether I’m writing stories and songs or figuring out how to attract more clients. I still have to ask a question and wait. Except there’s something about my life away from the desk, with mortgages and groceries and medical bills, that seems forever tied to the uncreative business of mere survival. There’s no time to wait. I’ve just got to know what to do right now so I can carry on.

Oh, it’s miserable. It’s miserable because I don’t know. I never know the answer to these creative questions I ask, and if I forget I’m still an artist, I feel stuck. I try to force answers and I feel stuck. Nothing works. Nothing changes. Eventually, of course, I stop complaining, and stop forcing, and sort of give up and just go about my day, and somewhere in this quiet muddling around an answer comes. It was waiting to come, waiting for me to stop complaining and forcing and worrying, waiting for me to remember I’m an artist, that I’m always an artist, and there’s only one real way to make anything.

Check out Fearless Writing with Bill Kenower on YouTube or your favorite podcast app.

Everyone Has What It Takes: A Writer’s Guide to the End of Self-Doubt
You can find William at: williamkenower.com