Creativity, control, and trust

I’m a control freak. There—I said it. Now we can move on to what this article is really about.

Being a control freak doesn’t pair well with creativity. Most days I’m very hard on myself. This isn’t a virtue. I’m either a prison warden, prodding myself from cell to cell (“It’s 9:00 a.m.—you’re supposed to have finished your writing by now and be onto the next task!”), or I’m that merciless brat of a boy on the playground chanting insults and criticisms at me (“You’re done, but look how long it took you! Na na na-NA-na”). The problem with this approach of self-management when it comes to creativity, of course, is that there’s absolutely no beauty in it. Rather than riding a wave of inspiration, it’s more like squirming under obstacles in the mud at a military boot camp. No matter what you produce, it’s too late and not enough.

I wonder what it would be like if I didn’t need to manage myself one day … if, for just one day, I were sort of on my own side. I think I would say, “You know, you’ve actually worked very hard. You deserve a day to just rest and to do whatever you like.” I think I would still go for a jog, because I love the fresh air on my face, to look up at the sky through the trees, and to feel my blood pulsing and my chest out of breath at the end of it. But I would go whenever I felt like it, whenever the sun was out and I wanted to stretch my legs and clear my mind. And I think I would still play around with booking travel, because looking for flights and hotels can be exciting, even if it’s just for a work trip. I think I would still read scientific papers, because I just love learning, especially when there’s no specific purpose for it. These papers are so rich in information, and my eyes have been trained over many years to trot along them at an enjoyable pace. I wouldn’t limit myself to just one paper or to just one hour. I would leave it open ended, letting my curiosity lead me. And then, once my brain closed shop for the day, what would I do? Perhaps paint. Or watch a movie with some popcorn. Or cook something fun and intricate and bask for hours in the smell of it baking or simmering. Then, with my belly full and senses saturated, I think I’d read a really good book, one with no apparent use to me but one whose writing just sings. After all, there’s no better way to fall asleep than with the words of a truly gifted writer echoing in my ear.

What a beautifully breezy day it would be. I think that creatives (and all humans are creative in my book—maybe other animals are too) need some breathing room. Actually, we need lots of it. As a control freak, I do everything I can to tighten the belt on my breathing room. I find great glee in scheduling my life down to the half hour for months in advance. The schedule is practically useless, because life never follows our plans, but it does look so perfect and orderly all laid out there in my Google calendar. Sometimes I look at it just for the dopamine rush. The adverse effects of a schedule are multiple: It constrains you, it tries to cram way too many things into a day and a week, it doesn’t allow for the dynamic nature of your existence as a mere animal living in a complex environment, it makes you feel perpetually guilty for not accomplishing what you set out to accomplish, and it sucks the fun out of everything you do. Scheduling apps should come with a warning label like cigarettes.

Is it so bad to live as a flesh-and-bones human, rather than as a robot? So what if things get done in a non-linear way, as we’re able to do them? So what if the nature of the creative mind is that we like to plunge deeply into our work rather than break it down into small containers? I think sometimes just knowing that I only have an hour or two to do something is what constrains me and makes me dread it. What if I gave myself a bit more breathing room and I just trusted myself to follow through? What if, rather than breaking each endeavor down into “tasks” and drilling them into my days like a tattoo needle, I just wandered along the shore of my existence, picked up the next smooth rock I saw, and sent it skipping across the lake? What if I made creativity a game and enjoyed watching each rock dance in its own unique way? Life, dare I say, could actually be fun.

To turn your work into drudgery is to have lost all power and to turn it into play is to have won at life. The difference is not the work. The difference is you. Will you trust yourself to create?