The Price of Power

I've been dealing with something recently...something I wouldn't wish on any person.

I thought I'd left the tantrums and pettiness of school life behind. I thought, by forging my own way, that my struggles would be defined by the friction of trecking over uneven ground. I thought I'd left behind the games that weakness plays by accepting that power wasn't inherently evil. I thought by accepting the power in my chosen role, I wouldn't be bombarded with the limitations of weak thoughts.

But I was wrong.

In accepting the strength I'd gained from experience, I accidentally took up the mantel of service. Service to a higher good than just my own. By searching for my own happiness, I'd gone through a forging that most people never experience. That forging gave me an inner solidity that many never find.

Power is a ruthless taskmaster.

This week I have been tested.

My ability to hold my standards above the dragging waters of despair have been challenged. My ability to stave off attackers to my boundaries has been poked and prodded. My ability to create and maintain meaningful, understanding relationships even when the forces above seek to batter them is being placed over the fire.

And even as I cry in frustration, I recognize that I am not broken. My spirits sag and my physical endurance drains. Sleep is a faded dream and security wobbles around me, unsure of itself. But I am not broken. I am still me. I still have myself. The great, nuanced metropolis that I've created with the core of my being still stands.

I am weary and parts of me are ready to escape to softer shores. Should I give in, there is no shame. It means, simply, that I was not ready to take on the new level of power, for which I'm reaching.

For now, I'm stubborn. I've made the decision to pass this test.

The price for power is a pound of flesh. But the flesh is only the veneer.

The Public Arena

Part of the difficulty I've faced when discussing my art are the sideways questions that amount to, “Don’t you think you’re being naive?” The talk of statistics, how so few artists “make it.” And how the term “making it” is used when what they really mean is “making a living from it.”

I've been wondering lately…

Who decided the purpose of making art was to make a living?

Making money from our art can be fulfilling and even add a level of joy to our work. But it isn't the point of going to the page, the canvass, the piano, the stage. The point of showing up is to make art, not money.

Demanding that all artwork be backed monetarily means demanding that all artists put themselves under the scrutiny of the public eye. And that eye can be toxic.

The world is full of blocked creatives whose fear of embracing their own art causes them to denounce the fledgling muse of an individual new to the craft. Making a leap of faith takes courage, and it is easier to belittle another's attempt than it is to make the jump for oneself.

“Trend” and “tradition” are tossed about as if the only good art belongs to the past and those who follow in its rigid footsteps. Being creative involves leaving tradition behind, which is a frightening prospect to some.

The public eye is quite fond of measuring the baby steps of a creative toddler to the great strides of an artistic pro. We don't test kindergartners on advanced algebra, yet somehow a young artist is required to know how to navigate a project while adhering to ever-changing whims and staying true to their unique voice.

All of these things feed a beginner’s dark inner dialogue. We hear individuals claim that “they don’t make music like they used to.” Fans of realism sneer at the wobbling lines of a modern sculpture, meant to say more than stark edges ever could. Critics tell us the firewalls of business are meant to keep the riff raff out.

We doubt ourselves. We doubt our art. And we stagnate.

It doesn't have to be this way.

If we truly seek to have better art (as opposed to rigidly hunting more of the same), we must nurture the gawky seedlings. We must learn the difference between criticism and shaming (the former asks, “How can this be made better?” while the latter claims there’s nothing worth saving).

If we want to have more variety, we have to embrace the idea of different paths. We cannot continue to hold one method of delivery as more sacred than another (i.e…the ridiculous declaration that indie artists are ruining their respective genres).

To grow art, we must be willing to grow artists. And growth is a painful and sometimes ugly process. But if the desired outcome is flow, it won’t be achieved by standing still.

Individual Paces: Learning Curves

Each new skill requires a learning curve. And each individual will require a curve unique to him or herself. There is no shame in that. I've said this before (and perhaps if I say it enough, I'll more easily incorporate it into my own life):  there is nothing wrong with being a beginner.

"There's a first time for everything." As the saying goes.

I'd like to make a minor adjustment:  "There's a first time for everyone." In other words, everyone is a beginner at least once in their lives (and usually much more than that).

What may be a simple task for an experienced individual will be a complex endeavor for someone experiencing it for the first time.

For example:  Last week, I bought Photoshop CC for the purpose of creating novel covers and promotional material. I hadn't touched the program before in my life when I first opened it on my laptop. There were so many shiny buttons, and I had no clue what any of them were for. I had a basic understanding of what a layer was used for, and the most extensive things I'd ever done with a photo before were to resize, crop, and paint over it. Anyone who has used a simple paint program knows how much time I've probably wasted when changing my mind mid-paint.

I knew Photoshop CC would streamline my processes and provide me with more creative freedom, but I didn't know how. So I spent a week watching tutorial videos, reading how-to material, and practicing with my own photos. In a week, I went from knowing nothing about Photoshop to creating two series logos that I'm absolutely in love with. (I'll share those when the website goes live. X-3 )

But I have a shallow learning curve for creative expression.

On the other hand:  About two months ago, I was taught how to run a new kind of machine at my night job. I'd watched other operators from afar. I knew the number of responsibilities I would take on by learning this new machine, but I had no idea how to do any of those things. For two weeks, I was followed around by a trainer who helped me when I forgot important details and provided step-by-step instruction on how each task was to be done.

Two weeks ago, I stopped brining my cheat sheet. Last week I felt comfortable enough to make the decision to call maintenance when a problem arose.

Obviously, my learning curve regarding technical skills is much steeper than with creative ones.

But that's my individual style.

There's no shame in being a beginner and needing time to learn a new skill. The only shame to be had is when we try to push ourselves above the level at which we naturally gather, understand, and retain new information.

Asking for help when I needed it used to be very difficult for me. I wanted to be able to do everything on my own from the starting gate with minimal instruction. I don't learn most skills that way, and it caused more problems and frustration than swallowing my pride and asking for advice would have done.

In our desire for independence, we've forgotten that standing on our own power requires us to understand when our power alone isn't enough. Teachers would be unnecessary if we all came equipped with all the knowledge we would ever need. Trainers wouldn't exist if everyone who walked into the door of a company could do every job in it. School wouldn't be a word in our vocabulary.

Learning in an essential part of life. It's best to make peace with it and our individual style of doing so.

Lessons from the Revision Desk

Part 2: Sometimes It's Just You

There comes a time in every artist's life when the notes inside a well-meant critique will hit us the wrong way. A line we love will be reduced to cliche. A beta reader will cringe at wording we thought was clever or inspired.

It stings.

For some of us, it might spark the dreaded I'll-never-write-again-this-will-be-the-death-of-me head space. For others, it might bring about a snarling cursing match with the paper.

Those of us who are meant to will move past this, reaching for our calming ritual of choice and examining the advice a second or third (or dozenth) time. Often, this revisit is enough to convince us of the validity of the hated critique, and work may resume.

Occasionally, we'll come across that rare moment when the problem isn't the work. It's us.

The "problem" isn't so much a flaw of craft as it is a quirk of voice or style (perhaps in need of refinement). There will always be individuals who don't like our unique brand of expression. And there will always be individual aspects of our brand that avid fans will wish didn't exist. There's no need to sand ourselves down trying to please every dissenter, even as it is important to undergo polish to become what we were meant to be.

This is true of the selves we keep when we leave the desk.

Our planet would be a dry place if humanity was a monolith. Yet we are blasted on all sides by messages demanding we conform to this or that ideal. We are urged to curb our own needs in order to please a faceless hive lord who claims the pieces of our core can only manifest in a binary.

There is a reason the visible spectrum has seven themes and endless variations on those themes.

Embracing our own voice doesn't require us to disregard all outside influence and trudge ahead only as we please. It forces us to be responsible for the flavor we bring to those influences. It makes us both our own creators and our only unfinished project (remaining incomplete by design). It necessitates that we grow to prevent stagnation and boredom.

Cultivating our voice requires us to read our own minds instead of looking to others to do it for us. In the beginning, there will be no plan, only a desired destination.

But isn't that what vision is for?

Lessons From the Revision Desk

Part 1: Loving Something Doesn't Make it Good

This is probably the hardest lesson a writer has to learn when it comes to making a piece shine. As we go along, typing that first draft, we'll fall in love with certain paragraphs or scenes. We'll snicker as we re-read those beloved lines, proud of our wit.

These words may make us feel good about our skill. They may make us believe in ourselves even when the hard pushes come, even when it feels like we'll never put another productive word on the page.

Then the revision stage arrives.

We take out the red pen, put on our ruthless hats, and get to work.

And, in the light of a new day, our favorite scene doesn't seem so shiny anymore. The jokes that made us giggle and bolstered our spirits seem trite and unoriginal. The cute interaction between characters does nothing to drive the story. Witty sentences become awkward to the point we forgot what their purpose was.

So they have to go...because they're hurting the piece.

The same could be said of things we're clinging to outside our writing.

Trips to the coffee shop that result in more pastry than productivity. Friends who demand more of us than is healthy to give. Lovers who expect much and give little. Online interactions that steal our energy and depress us. Pretty shoes that pinch or harm our muscles.

In the end, we have to think about us first, about our needs.

Don't mistake me. I'm not talking about neglecting a friend to indulge a pleasurable pursuit. I'm not talking about ignoring a responsibility in favor of a fleeting fancy. I'm not talking about sacrificing family for unnecessary monetary gains.

I'm talking about removing people from our lives who refuse to respect our boundaries, who refuse to value our time. I'm talking about axing the things from our lives that make it harder for us to be happy and healthy. I'm talking about fulfilling the parts of ourselves that need nurturing.

This means coming to an understanding of what we each really need. It means understanding who we are as individuals. It means allowing ourselves to be different. It means looking inside ourselves and using the cave drawings there to tell us what we really need, what desires would make us happy.

And doing so can be hard work, just like cutting up something we spent months creating.

But it will be worth the struggle.

Retreating

Over the last few months, I've been absent from my desk. I stepped away from my (personally assigned) responsibility to put words to page. I gave myself some distance from my social media accounts.

In essence, I retreated from the world outside myself.

I imagine some of you are now expecting me to wax poetic about stress or depression.

I'm not going to do that. Neither of those are the cause for my retreat. The reason I took a step back is much more productive.

For several reasons (some of them self-esteem), I decided to make another effort to lose weight. I've tried before with varying degrees of success, but I wanted to do this the effective way. I wanted to make it stick this time. Doing so meant I had to devote time and energy to the endeavor. Time and energy I usually reserved for writing projects.

Because, for me (and so many like me), losing weight isn't about "calories in, calories out," which is nonsense pseudoscience to begin with. (But that's not the topic at hand.)

For me, weight loss had to begin with understanding why I'd gained it in the first place. What habits had I developed over the years that contributed to my current weight? Why had I developed those habits in the first place? And what could I do to change them?

The first and third questions were easy enough to answer.

It took digging to understand why, and that digging required emotional energy.

I had to crawl down inside myself and chip away at the walls to understand that I'd developed a fear of being small. Small things were treated as weak. And weak things were to be exploited and bullied. Large things were treated as strong. And strong things were respected and allowed freedom.

I had to wrap myself up in my own being to understand that I'd conflated eating with abundance. The more abundant your food supply, the higher up on the hierarchy you were. And the higher your place in the hierarchy, the less likely you were to be bullied.

I had to sit with my past to understand that I associated largeness with masculinity. The more masculine you were, the more revered and complimented you were. The more feminine you were, the more shunning and verbal attacks you received.

The worst part of it all, isn't knowing I took these toxic messages to heart.

The worst part is knowing I learned these messages at home. But I've grown to a point where I can only feel sadness for this knowledge. This sadness has led to a certain amount of determination.

I will rise above the toxicity of my past, and move toward a future of my own making, a future in which being myself is enough.

Finding Permanence

Permanence. Legacy. Meaning.

At some point in our lives, we all come to a point where we wonder what mark we've left on the world. What have we contributed to society? How will we be remembered?

The difficult part is eventually coming to the conclusion that at some point in the future, our contribution will be forgotten, no one who remembers us will be alive. So how do we leave a lasting impression when everything we know and do will eventually become obsolete and forgotten?

It's much easier than it sounds.

Step one: realize that people, ideas, and things are impermanent. New people will be born. New ideas will take shape. New things will be made. Your personal permanence will not be found pursuing them.

Step two: recognize that the only permanent thing in this universe is change, flow. No matter how we try to stop it. No matter how much we cling to the past, the future will come to pass. The new will replace the old. Sometimes this will yield productive consequences. Sometimes it won't. But it will happen.

Step three: understand  that you have a role in that flow. Each new person born has a place in the flow of the universe. That place is determined by their individual skills, desires, backgrounds, and opportunity. It is by striving for this place and being willing to allow ourselves to be that person that we find our permanence.

Meaning and legacy and, yes, even permanence, are found in the impermanent, ever-changing landscape of time. Permanence is found in the archetypes, and plenty of them exist for all of us to claim as our own.