This morning the street just east of us was cordoned off. The source of the commotion was a large man with wild grey hair pacing back and forth high atop the roof of a house that was under construction.
Since I was there last, speaking both to the police officers on the scene and the framing contractor and his crew that had been kept from the job site from all the drama, it was unclear what this man's intentions were. Was he there to jump, to get a suntan, to get better cell reception? All that was known was that he wouldn't come down from the roof and that he had a pizza up there with him. One large Domino's pizza is what they told me. It was unsettling to see the guy up there, a slip and a fall from tragedy, but in some way aren't we all trying to get to some higher place, get close to the edge, make a bold statement? Look, I'm not the type to walk around the steep roof of a half-constructed house, but still, as a poetical metaphor at least, I think I could understand something of what he might be doing up there.
Today is my birthday, and as I feel the hands of time sweep around once again, I can't help but think about my own mortality, but not in any maudlin or morbid way. It's more that knowing there is a limit and a definition to the amount of time we're allotted here on Earth makes me more focused on bringing the fruits of my imagination to life.
I'm 56 years old today. When I was 22, (the age I actually feel I am most of the time) someone 56 would have seemed ancient. But like I said, I feel 22. I'm even more hopeful now then I was back then, more sure of my ability to put my creative ideas into the real world. There's a certain hubris that goes along with that, a kind of bravado that may not always be warranted, but it's what's needed to take the fruits of one's mind and actually make them manifest in space and time.
As a songwriter I've been trained in the act of moving forward against my fear of rejection, a fear we all share. If I were to listen to my fears, the ones that have always whispered, "Who the hell are you to think that anyone cares," no song of mine would have ever been written. That is to say that I've rarely waited for fearless moments to write my songs. I've been afraid very often and acted -- equally as often -- in spite of my fear.
The thing I've discovered after many years of trial and error is that to write, to create anything really, you need to do this one specific thing (and excuse me for its seeming simplicity): You need to sit down. You need only sit down with the intention to create. Please understand, I'm not talking about sitting down with a great idea or sitting down with a fearless attitude, I really mean -- just sitting down. That's it. A chair (and a will to act) are your principal tools.
In my case, that means getting my guitar, a pen and paper, and putting my ass in a chair. I know it sounds artless, even a bit absurd to reduce a creative process down to something so basic, but nonetheless, it's how things get done. In your case it might be driving to the gym, or dialing your mother, or doing a web search for the nearest art supply store; but the fact is that to defy the negative voice inside us, the one that would have us believe that we have no right to create, that what we are likely to come up with will be so devastatingly boring to others (and worse, shaming to ourselves) we need to reduce it all to a primal physical act: sitting down to commence a process.
Once we do, it's like a floodgate readies itself to open. When I take small actions towards our goals my internal critic says, "You know, Peter's really into this. He's proved it by getting to work instead of succumbing to his fear. I'm gonna move over and let him do his thing." On the other hand, if I were to pace the room, fearfully mulling over whether or not I should begin; this inner critic would be all over me, filling my mind with every sort of anxiety. The other thing that happens when we sit down to write (or accomplish any creative goal) is that whether or not we previously had something to say becomes completely irrelevant. Sometimes having "something to say" actually becomes an impediment to our getting closer to a work of truth and value.