Making things make me happy.
Like a lot of people, I am proud to build with my own hands and brand it with a unique and quirky mark: indicative to my personality.
When I get a new idea, either for a song or painting project, something takes hold of my spirit. I’m basically a child: engrossed and wide eyed. Coffee and music are my high. I’m in the zone.
Everyone experiences it when involved and engrossed in what they’re doing. So much so, that outside stimulants are of no consequence (it’s best to zone in your safe place, perhaps at home or with a friend whom can act as your unzon-ed DD).
It’s a sort of productive forgetfulness. It’s effective, but structure if important, too. Creative rampages are great (and necessary!) but we have to find a way to put it into perspective: asking key questions like, “Okay, now how do use this to help me reach a goal?” “What’s the next step?”.
Basically, these fits fuel more projects. They propel us forward to greater understanding of ourselves and the nature of people (if you’re a writer or artist you basically try to understand relationships, an almighty, or come to terms with your past and other people). Which brings me to my next point:
The zone in artistry is a non-comparive place. Do you know why? BECAUSE COMPARISON KILLS CREATIVITY.
I can’t count how many times I compared myself to others. It’s belittling to your creative genius to do it. But I did it daily: with my weight, schooling, and worst of all my creativity.
We have a need as humans to express our feelings. Individuals with low self esteem, and those who have been ridiculed about their ideas tend to fall to the wayside. Never finding what makes them feel alive. Perhaps finding their zone in doing trivial things. I know because I spent years trying to make other people happy and relive moments of glory. Not even my own glory, but sparks and remnants forged by someone else. Feeling like I could never create anything that was worth reading, listening to, or even looking at.
It began with self-esteem. I guess it ends with self-esteem, too.
It wasn’t until I started to accept myself that I let my mind move creatively.
There was life before, and then there’s life after. The pivotal moment was during high school; with reminders of memento mori and the impending adult life looming ahead. It took years for me to love my body, my mind, and acknowledge my right to make art.
Life is messy. Art is messy. Being human is messy.
Our membership to the human race is a limited edition package deal: riddled with flaws, heartbreak, and the freedom to create something that makes you proud and expresses what you believe. It doesn’t matter what anyone else thinks about what you’ve created; you are brave and you did the thing. How else will you find a voice if you do not speak about what’s your mind?
That was my thinking anyway, and I haven’t looked back.
Speak your truth.
Tell your story.
Shout it from he rooftops. Listen to other rooftop stories. They’re building their voice same as you.
Learn. Speak. Plan. Embrace the zone.