Day Sixty: Who Cares!

While at work today, I came across a wonderful, amazing blog called "A Hamburger Today". After reading about and looking at probably a hundred hamburgers and cheeseburgers over the course of an hour. I REALLY wanted a cheeseburger. I also wanted a food blog. And so, I want to do something similar, just for the hell of it. While the food I'm going to write about will remain a mystery, it's a project I'm going to start probably this weekend. It's going to be informal and fun, without time constraint or minimum posts. And in thinking about my new, fun endeavor, I had another one of those epiphanies I get.

I've started trying to not put as much pressure on myself lately, in terms of my future, where I want to be, what I wanted to be doing, and who I want to make happy. And strangely and miraculously, I'm finding it easier to be creative. Doing simple things that aren't meant to impress anyone seem like fun to me again. I'm feeling happier already. And it's pretty pretty amazing.

So today is hopefully the launch of a new bout of creativity. Hopefully I will have more to offer and share, and with that, I cut things short today, because honestly, who am I trying to impress? I'm writing to keep the habit up, which is good, but there's no reason for me to put pressure on myself to write enough in volume, or profoundly enough, or interestingly enough. But I would still like to come up with decent endings...

Day Fifty-Eight: Why Am I Doing This?

For fifty-eight days, I have been sitting down at a computer and writing. I write about life, I write about moving, cooking, dogs, people, and things that annoy me. For fifty-eight days, I've chronicled my thoughts habitually. For fifty-eight days, I've formed words into sentences, and sentences into roughly-hewn paragraphs. And I can't for the life of me remember why I started writing everyday.

I know I didn't want to bore myself, and that I felt like I needed to use the talents God gave me rather than let them sit in my brain and do nothing while I aged and got old and too busy to do it anymore. But really, now I realize that it doesn't really make a difference. If I like it, I should do it, and if I don't, then why does it matter? Luckily, I like it. I like sitting down to write everyday, assuming I can think of something to write about. Most of the time, unfortunately, I can't think of anything decent to write about, but I usually come up with something somewhat decent and put something together. My first few posts were a much higher caliber of writing than a lot of what I have been writing lately -- more descriptive, less introspective, and more creative with a larger range of vocabulary. But it occurred to me this evening that I have been writing so habitually that I don't even think about why I do it anymore: because I like it.

I make myself write everyday because I'm lazy, and given the opportunity I will many times lay on the couch and watch Food Network over doing just about any kind of personally enriching creative activity. And I think in that regard, I'm doing the right thing. But I have to be doing it for the right reason, too. And thankfully, I think I am.

It reminds me on a regular basis why I chose to go to college for writing, and why at one point I wanted to make it my career. Because I love it, and it comes fairly naturally to me. So I'll keep doing it, because I need a kick in the ass. And maybe at some point, I'll strengthen my weakness of being absolutely terrible at coming up with decent conclusions to things I write about.

Day Forty-One: The Importance of Creativity

At noon today, I started making batter for red velvet cupcakes from scratch. I meticulously watched the butter come to perfect beating temperature, carefully measured out all my ingredients, and added a generous amount of food coloring. By two P.M., I had three pans of perfectly round and squat, red cupcakes, and I spent about fifteen minutes making smooth vanilla frosting. By 4:30 P.M., I had three pans of horrendously iced cupcakes and a severe need for a nap. After dinner and a quick nap, by ten P.M. I had twelve too-cute to eat, colorful, fondant-colored cupcakes. I took several pictures of them like they were my children, and I'm incredibly proud of them since it's the first time I worked with fondant, and they turned out pretty damn well.

So I spent ten hours of my day creating things, which I haven't done in a very, very long time. I'm not sure I've actually ever spent that much consecutive time in a day being that meticulous and creative about something, and it was good to get back into the groove of using my creative impulses again and sitting and getting that satisfying stiff neck and stained fingers, even if they were stained with food dye and not paint or graphite. It's not permanent art, but it's art just the same. After having such a satisfying day, being completely consumed by something and not want to do anything else, I wonder how some people can simply not enjoy being the slightest bit creative.

As part of my senior thesis, a quarter of our grade was a "creative project", in which we had to use what we had learned to create something tangible that we could use to either put on a resume or show potential employers. Most video majors created documenteries, but there was no set medium for specific concentrations. Two of my close friends and I threw a small benefit concert, which was a lot of work, a lot of fun, and a really interesting way to go out with a bang our senior year. But some people, unbelievable to me, had an extremely difficult time and absolutely hated the idea of the creative project at all. I cannot, even slightly understand not being creative. It is so ingrained in me that I even though I don't use concentrated creativity very often, I still can't imagine not feeling creative about something. Even if it's in the way I arrange things or the way I dress myself, I'm still being creative. And some people just don't care. How is it that some people just don't have a single creative bone in their bodies? How do they function?

Day Twenty-Three: I Really Don't Get Artists.

Before I went to college, I contemplated being an artist. I would sit for hours capturing people and animals in graphite, or creating weird, colorful paintings with acrylics. But, my logical side won out and I went to school for writing instead, realizing that I would probably end up hating anything artistic from being forced to create everyday until I was utterly exhausted. And, more importantly, that I would probably have a difficult time eating and would live in my parents house until I was forty. But when I arrived, I discovered another reason I am glad I didn't try to surround my life with art.

I really don't understand artists.

Some artists are just normal (somewhat normal, anyway) people, like me, who just enjoy creating art and playing with color. Other people, the kind of people I was surrounded by in school, are artists. These are the people who wear tophats as a part of their regular everyday wardrobe, and chainsmoke in front of maple trees while their friend named Calliope sits painting her feet for fun. While these people are undoubtedly on some other plane of existence, and their brain functions on a completely different level as the rest of us, I have a difficult time taking them seriously. In fact, I'm pretty sure anyone except people not unlike themselves can take them seriously. As I walked by on my way to my web design class, I would shake my head and wrack my brain trying to understand how these people think from the moment they get up in the morning. What must it be like to be that...weird?

The thing that fascinates me most about artsy artists are that most of them act as free as they look. They really don't care much about anything but love, art, and thinking. Either that, or they're completely conflicted, angry, and tortured. But what must it be like to create that openly and think that freely and just be consumed by making things all day? I might like to be an artist for a day, but certainly not more than that. I'm pretty sure I'd go legitimately crazy.