Tag: creativeprocess

cottagecore · Uncategorized

Tonight’s Chinese Fortune

MabelLeave a comment

Hello Strangers,

I am so sleepy, but this seemed like a good way to end the day. I’ve been meaning to come back on here for a while and time just keeps getting away from me. The pictures above are of a project I’m working on which is about houses and this woman who is obsessed with them. For my birthday, Henry got me a glass dip pen, ink, and a book I can bind myself, and I finally began using it the other day. I try to draw when I have energy or am too awake, because the strokes and scrumbles are very meditative for me and it fills me with quiet that I’m often lacking. I’ll have to come back here soon and do a post specifically on the pen and drawings.

But today was a very good day. I talked to three friends, and I put away a large pile of laundry on the floor, washed the bedding, and put in a load of towels after that. 

Every time I’ve asked Henry to take care of a spider in recent months, he has gone and found a piece of paper and a cup and relocated them, even if they were especially squirrely. I tell him it’s sweet of him, and he just says it’s never sat right with him to kill a spider after he read that poem that ends, 

“If I am killed for simply living, let death be kinder than man.” 

So, this evening when I was on my phone call and saw a sharp, spindly little creature racketing around my laundry closet, I told my friend offhandedly, 

“One second, I have to kill this spider.” 

And as I was looking for something to wack it with, I poked my head out to ask Henry to kill it for me, and I remembered that he doesn’t like to kill spiders. And then I remembered the poem. Then I remembered that I don’t like to kill spiders. And so she gets to live in the wash room until she meets her natural end. It’s only fair. I always thought that poem was beautiful, and it broke my heart but for some reason, it wasn’t until I watched someone live it out that I found it in myself to do the same.

A little bit later we went to our favorite restaurant and talked about the art our friends make; one makes impressive, beautiful paintings, the other makes photography with skill I can only aspire to. She got a new camera with 120 mm film, as opposed to her usual 35 mm film. I’m really looking forward to seeing what each of them make this year. 

I paid this time, he often does, and when we got in the truck we broke our cookies and read our fortunes. He should be open to adventure on Wednesday, and my night will be filled with connection and love. 

He’s in the other room working on an exam, and I’m here, doing chores and writing this letter. And my night is indeed filled with connection, and love. 

Here’s hoping some of it gets to you, 

—Mabel

Oh, P.S., the poem is “Kinder Than Man” by Althea Davis.

art · Art & Writing

The Number One Thing that Changed my Art

Mabel1 Comment

Hello Stranger.

If you were here right now, there would be clothes and trash on the floor, and dishes piling up in the kitchen. You would detect a faint light in the window, but the curtains would be drawn, and the door locked because I did not trust the night. For the first time, you would see bills and notices with my personal information littering side tables and flung haphazardly on the kitchen table and under it. But what would I care? The dangers are outside. You are inside. You would feel vaguely ill at ease, and I would be grateful that you felt it too.

There would still be food and something to drink.

And it would be a good night to discuss the subject of art.

My art changed forever when I stopped trying to make masterpieces, and started making things that were accessible.

There are two aspects to this. The first part was mental.

About three New Year’s’ ago, I bought myself a nice sketchbook. I had very specific plans for it, it was going to be used as a field guide for a world I was building, hoping to make a book. A list of ‘flora and fauna’ and the corresponding illustrations. I painstakingly researched medicinal plants, sketched and painted them, and wrote descriptions of them describing how they would apply in the other world. I got two pages done. I didn’t touch the sketchbook for the next year.

I was proud of the art! In fact, I still really like what I created. But it was stressful. It was high effort, and joyless. I was working full time and in college, and when I got home, I was exhausted.

It all changed when, a year later, I sat down to draw with my little sister and sketched a frog, a little cottage, and some mushrooms. And then it looked empty, so I splattered it with blue and green paint. I liked those.

Just like that, the sketchbook was ruined. It was no longer going to be used for flora and fauna of one specific world.

Now, this doesn’t bother everyone, but for someone like me, it made my skin itch. I felt a vague but intense sense of shame and guilt for straying from my original intent. I was a flake. And my story would never exist.

Let me just say, I have made more art, and more bright, happy, interesting artwork, and sewn together more stories in that sketchbook than I ever did before. When I had to quit my job, move states, and stayed in a room, sick with long-covid for three months, I made art. Not beautiful, detailed portraits. Not things that took my energy. I drew simple lines and painted in bright colors. I used whatever I needed to ‘cheat.’ Whatever tools could help tell the story that I hadn’t allowed myself to use before. And I didn’t freak out when sharpies bled onto the pages behind them. (That was a big deal for me.)

Instead of stressing about what my human characters looked like, I just drew a scraggly little guy in pen, and painted him in bright colors, and wrote him a little blurb in a pretty font. Instead of meticulously planning a page, I drew a general idea of what I wanted and splattered paint all over it. It didn’t have to be ‘the exact mushroom from my head,’ it had to be a mushroom. It didn’t have to be a perfect van, it had to be a van on a misty mountain with the words, ‘I would like to live in a van and drive through the mountains one day.’

I know I’m rambling, but honestly, how often do we hold ourselves back because we’re afraid that either our art will look imperfect, or that the imperfections will look like us? Art is one of the few areas in life that I don’t just carry shame and it eats me alive that other people do.

For the next week, what if you drew little comics with stick figures. What if you painted abstract figures or splattered colors. What if you looked at it without criticizing yourself so harshly. What then.

The second part was physical.

After long-covid, I am chronically exhausted. I am often sad or numb, and you know what, I was before too. But I can’t just ignore it anymore. When I get sick now, I stay sick for a long time. I feel like I have so little within me.

Babe, if you have a funny joke in your mind but it can only happen in a certain scenario, write it down. If you want to sketch Pete Davidson on a receipt from the Chinese restaurant, do it. If all you’ve got in you is a weird little guy in a striped sweater, but he’s there a lot, get him out on paper. Draw stick figures. Honey, it’s okay. The art that I make when I have almost nothing, is the art at the bottom of me.

It changed my life.

Just create what’s accessible to you. It’s okay.

Anyway, much love to you. As you know, my name is not actually

–Mabel

Small Dream Saturday

Small Dream Saturday: A Brief History of Vampires

MabelLeave a comment

Hello Strangers,

I am nothing if not (in)consistent. Today (eleven o’clock at night,) I am going to do things a bit differently; I am going to reveal to you the surprising and potentially very inaccurate history of the folkloric tradition of vampires as I have learned it.

Photo by Martin Schneider on Pexels.com

Beginning in the Slavic region of Europe, ‘wampyrs’ or ‘vampyrs’ were not blood sucking demons but were actually mythic creatures that sucked the rain from the storm clouds and causing the droughts that starved communities. Similar to the gods of other communities, they served as explanations for weather patterns and as causes of human suffering.

After this, it came to mean a race of creatures that devoured celestial bodies including the sun, and also the moon. They were thought to be the cause of eclipses and blood moons, when they would bite the moon, turning it red. Now, interestingly, this is also where the werewolf myth begins. Part of the vampyr myth was that they could shapeshift into creatures like crows, cats, rabbits, and, you guessed it, wolves. Because of this, and because of the new lore surrounding the moon and stars, historians have a difficult time deciding which myths belong to which creatures, and the meanings of the name that they shared for a long time. To this day, there is conflict between vampires and werewolves not only in the interpretation of their stories, but also as characters in the stories themsleves.

After all of this, we arrive at the familiar tale of the blood sucking demon. There wasn’t much to tell here, it was simply a terrifying supernatural creature, feeding on the blood of humans. Until it became something else. Something closer to a human.

If a human were to turn into a vampire, (forgive my many spellings of the word, I know it’s distracting,) there was usually a reason for it. Parents might curse their child, and when that child died, they would return as a vampire, roaming restlessly in search of human blood. They might be a child born out of wedlock, a union not blessed by God. I take issue with that kind of assertion, because I believe that God is merciful and that every person will have a chance to repent of their sins and be saved. I take issues with stories that twist our perception of reality, but it was a cultural belief at the time The third way one could become a vampire was through sorcery. If a magician was already playing with dark forces, then when they died, their corpse might be overtaken by a demon and used to steal blood. Not just human either, a lot of sheep and cattle were killed for a very long time.

From this myth, we find the introduction of the vampire into mainstream media in England, and then America: Bram Stoker’s Dracula. (This statement ignores the many myths already present in distinctive stories held by various Native American tribes, and it is an interesting note that while the modern vampire can be traced back to Slavic origins, there are cultures all over the world from Africa, to Asia, to the Americas and beyond who have their own tales of blood-sucking creatures similar to the vampire.) But! Nonetheless, Dracula was a beginning of the vampire for the American people. A nearly human, but still greedy, conniving, lusting, blood thirsty monster. And yet even in the novel, there was some sympathy for him.

Dracula is modern, but Twilight, True Blood, and The Vampire Diaries, are contemporary examples of the vampire in literature, and they have undergone yet another shift. While they maintain their warnings of and brushes with female sexuality, lust, and demonology, these vampires are no longer demons, even if they maintain their offensive religious imagery. Religion is even touched on directly and from the vampire’s perspective in Twilight; Edward Cullen thinks that as a vampire, he is beyond saving, beyond the grace of God, and unwanted by God. In The Vampire Diaries, the two leading brothers struggle to find a sense of morality and love. Also undead politics and eating people. But the point is, vampires have changed in a fundamental way: they are no longer demons, they are representations of fallen man.

Within the realm of storytelling, vampires are at a place at last where they might seek redemption. Instead of representing fear, evil, and famine, they represent the human lost. The unwanted. The dangerous, and the people who think they are too far gone. It is time, in fiction, for the vampire’s redemption.

All stories are a product of their time and culture. We tell stories based on the state of reality, and of the thoughts in our heads that maybe we are not ready to think about in their realest forms. Our culture today is lost, listless, restless, and evil. But fully human. And in the stories of today, there is an ingrained belief that even a vampire can be redeemed.

I have a hero complex, but I will never save anybody, in any way. My small dream at the end of this Saturday is a prayer that the lost would come home.

All my love to you,

–Mabel

cottagecore

A Different Light

MabelLeave a comment

Hello Strangers, and all my love to you.

In the spirit of a gray day, I need you to know that my eyes are falling shut, and I feel like my mind is swimming. Everything has that sleepy distortion over it like a filter. This might not make sense, but I’ve had to take my glasses off so that I can see.

And honestly, that’s just what today’s post is about.

Earlier in the week, I was walking shelter dogs during a thunderstorm. Throughout the season, lighting has struck down multiple trees in the little wooden area where we take the dogs on our way back to their pens, and fallen trees block some of the paths. It was dangerous to use that route on this morning, but none of us really heeded the warnings. And every time I’m out there, on the plank bridges above the ebbing stream, next to the rotting logs covered in moss, turtle shells and rabbit dens, and birds—more brightly colored than they seem they should be—I always want to take pictures. And I never have the time.

But finally, on this morning, I finished with the dogs and there was just enough time to take a couple of shots before I had to leave. That was when I noticed the blue light refractions on my glasses. Usually not a fan of that color palette, that day I saw a universe in the lenses. Speckles, in the path beyond.

You’ll all get tired of me saying this, I say it often now; the world is a dark place. But I think part of our responsibility as those who live here is to try, as often as possible, to see things in a different light.

Love,

–Mabel

Small Dream Saturday

Small Dream Saturday: entry 13

MabelLeave a comment

Good morning, Strangers.

Velma Dinkley: Chocolate Ice Cream at Night

When I was a child, I watched Scooby Doo obsessively. Didn’t matter the series or story, show or movie, it was guaranteed the tv was mine from 7:00 to 7:30 every single night. It was family ordained. I’d stand there eating a hotdog at the border between the kitchen and living room.

Scooby Doo was the seed that grew the desires to have a van and go on road-trips. It led me to consider becoming a private detective, and inspired my addiction to mysteries and fantasy alike. It was the first thing that made me feel clever and sparked an interest in cryptozoology.

I have three small dreams for this morning. They get smaller as they go along.

1. I would like to write a Scooby Doo television series. Scooby Doo is a franchise that acts like a comic book world. There are alternate universes with different sets of lore, different kinds of stories, different art styles, tones, and even character development. I think it’s likely that in twenty years, we’ll still be making Scooby Doo shows. And I’d like to write one.

2. A smaller dream, but still large, is that I would like to have insulated sheds on my very wild, natural property. These sheds would hold animation/digital art tech, so that I could make short videos, but also much longer and more detailed comic books and graphic novels that I would then self-publish. (Or maybe publish traditionally! Who knows?) They would be cool and dark, and they’d be an escape from their more primitive surroundings.

3. This is the littlest dream, and it’s the one that will prepare me for dreams 1 and 2. I’m going to write as much fan fiction as possible. I should have started when I was twelve like all the other writers, but I just wasn’t ready. So now, I’m going to be indulgent. I’m going to learn by doing, and even if it’s all hot garbage, I am going to have fun and grow as a person as I write incomprehensible cross overs, multiple-plot line series’s, and just fun, ridiculous one off stories. It’s going to be magnificent, and I know that because I’ve already started. My motto is quantity over quality. For that is the way to improve.

That’s all for now! Happy Saturday, my dears, and happy writing! All love,

—Mabel

Art & Writing

Tolkien Skies

MabelLeave a comment

Hello Strangers,

I’ve missed it here.

For the sake of the story, regardless of where you are, let’s pretend that it’s dark outside. You’re sitting across from me at a round wooden table in a country kitchen with a low watt bulb. It’s a bit depressing, but very human, and despite the heavy feeling, you also feel at ease. We have mugs of tea in front of us whether you enjoy tea or not, because that’s what I served. It has honey in it, and a spoon. And last of all, I am a woman of incalculable age, I could be young or older, and my hands… My skin is stretched over muscle and bone in such a way that somehow implies I am tired. So tired. When you look at my face, that skin is stretched too. And all of a sudden, I am not just tired.

Do you see what I want you to see?

For a time, as a teenager, I lived in a desert. I hated it desperately for years because during the day, the sun washed out all the color from the earth. Even green things looked grey. The sky looked almost white, and the color of the sunlight was closer to white than to a bold, happy yellow. I would stay inside for weeks on end.

After my uncle died, I would sit out on the wall and talk to him. I think it was during that time that I saw the evening sky in the desert. And that’s when everything changed. For a few minutes a day, I was at the circus. I was in a fantasy world. The clouds looked like cotton candy, or storms made of fire, or some other, incredible event.

Examples of Tolkien Skies

I named them Tolkien Skies, after J.R.R. Tolkien. From that moment on, I realized how much fiction had informed my views of reality. Tolkien’s skies and mountains were in the desert, but my old house in North Carolina was the setting of Ink Heart by Cornelia Funke. I look at trees and to this day I still see Dr. Seuss. Fireflies lead to magic portals, and in the field past my backyard, a barefoot woman I wrote met God.

The place I am now, it’s been a nightmare for me. I’ve stopped looking for good and I feel consistently heavy. The things I love hold less appeal. There is no physical escape from the sadness. Everywhere I look there is suffering and hatred. But that’s not the whole story.

You see, since being here, I’ve built more stories than I have I think anywhere else. I haven’t written to you yet about the neighbors whose window inspired my blog’s tag, ‘a window in the dark, a cup of tea waiting in the kitchen’ and their blue, orange, green, and gold porch lights. I haven’t told you about the lore I built around the moon. The movie Hugo was such a blessing to me, with its beautiful color palette and the Station Master in the film. I’ve gotten two dogs from this place and written more than 60,000 words in one year (a record, I think!) I learned how to bake bread, and I never would have started this blog if it weren’t for this difficult, difficult place. I began volunteering, and a very big opportunity has come my way. I’ve sat at city council meetings. And I’ll move again soon.

I can’t deny it. I’ve gotten sick again. I’m not functioning properly on any level. But as much as I want to deny it, this place has been a blessing from God. Many blessings. A new chapter is coming. And in the meantime, there has been just enough of different worlds to keep me sane while I stay in this one. I have more posts coming soon, mainly about writing and hopefully some about art (I have access to my photographs again! I will explain more in my next post!)

When things get dark, we need to search for God in the darkness. Where is He? Thankfully, I think He sometimes shows us redemption in the stories we tell ourselves. So much of my world is painted.

Thank you for sitting with me and letting me monologue. There’s a change of clothes in the guest bedroom towards the back of the house and clean sheets. I’ll leave the light on for you, but I’m going to bed. I am very, very tired.

All my love dear,

—Mabel

Art & Writing

The Medium of Story…

MabelLeave a comment

Hello Strangers, 

It is officially spring! Has been for a week. Flowers are blooming with the leaves on the trees, bugs are back, jumping and buzzing above the wildflowers and grasses, and the sun has gotten some of its color back. It’s looking to be a beautiful season. 

There are so many stories in nature. One area of the forest holds standing water, mosquitoes, and the moss which will continue to live despite  the summer heat, another has a babbling brook and Black Eyed Susans that the deer come to drink at, still another holds a meadow, which somehow always manages to catch the sunlight, gold in the middle, and green at the edges from the filter of the leaves. 

That’s an apt metaphor for story as well. I read somewhere that a lot of people today have stories inside them, but assume they have to turn them into novels. That simply isn’t true, there are a thousand ways to tell a story. They don’t even have to be written. 

My favorite living artist is named Robin Sealark. She has an excellent YouTube channel under that name, and she was the person who taught me to experiment with everything in my art. To sketch, paint, and tell story with abandon. Art-a-thons and studies, realistic and stylized…She explained that in the first year of an art degree, students work in the studio for hours a day, months on end, trying everything. Acrylic, oil, gouache, watercolor, graphite, charcoal, chalk, crayons, sculpting, digital mediums…And then after they’ve tried everything, they specialize.  

So, in a generation that has access to everything, do we limit ourselves? 

I’ve started a journal, and everytime I have a story idea, I write it down. I think about it, and then I also add what medium I think it’s best suited to. Some of my stories are very visual, so I pick comics, graphic novels, or animations, (animations are obviously out of reach for a lot of creators, but I still like to list it as an option!) and some stories enter my mind and I imagine telling them around a campfire or as a bedtime story. These might be better suited to podcasts, songs, or a simply written script I can memorize and tell as a bedtime story, or at a campfire. Not everything has to belong to everyone. 

You can write novels, short stories, poems, tv scripts, you can make mixed media stories like comics and graphic novels, you can make sculptures and paintings that encompass a story, dance, song, podcast, blog, youtube channel. You can cook stories! You can weave a story! Literally. 

What I’m asking is that you don’t limit yourself before you’ve tried everything. Even the people who write medical textbooks and grants are telling stories. Marketing is storytelling. Landscape paintings are stories. Embrace all of the mediums. Who knows, maybe you’ll find a new way to create. 

Happy Spring! 

–Mabel

Art & Writing

My Experience Writing the First Draft of a Novel

Mabel4 Comments

Hello Strangers.

I’ve done it.

Last Tuesday, I completed the first draft of my first novel! It’s a day I’ve dreamed of since the seventh grade, and finally, it’s done. The draft itself is kind of abysmal; it’s very short, the characters need more work, the plot needs filling, etc., but now that it’s completed and I’ve had some time to think, I’d like to write about the process of making it.

The Ignition

“Steal like an artist” is a maxim that has caused controversy within creative communities for at least a couple of years now, but unabashedly taking inspiration from multiple sources (that part is important) to create something that’s yours is what creation is…So when my favorite side character died in a tv show I loved, I had to steal him…And change almost everything else. As soon as he died, a story immediately began materializing in my mind. The characters shifted, the setting changed drastically, the plot would come later, but there was the inspiration. Of all the story ideas I’ve had, I’m actually shocked that this is the one I managed to write.

Incubation + Creative Partners

As soon as I had the idea, I let it roll around in my mind for a few days, scheming aesthetics, the feeling of the story, relationships, and things I wanted to include. Once I had a bit of it figured out, I ran and got my younger sister. She and I have come up with stories together for years. We’d tell them to each other at night, we’d brainstorm during the day, and we’d show each other art we made for it. Creative partners are one of the greatest assets a person can have, because instead of regurgitating the same thoughts over and over, they offer new ideas. It helps to keep ideas from stagnation and death. She loved the idea of this character in Scotland, surrounded by an obscene number of castles, so every night for the next two months, we spent an hour every night just talking about everything we wanted to happen. This stage was literally just talking, but it led to something I’ve never done before.

The Outline

All my life, I assumed that if I just started writing, then the plot would fall into place. Really, I was just denying the fact that I was scared to write an outline because I didn’t know how. I started writing chapter headings with brief synopses, but that ended up being too specific, so I labeled them ‘sections’ instead. I ended up with about eight sections across seven pages, and I managed to figure out the basics of the entire plot. It took probably a month, and I was still very intimidated by the process, but it saved the story.

Writing It

I’ll be honest. There was about a four-month period where I only wrote six thousand words. I was frozen. When the New Year came, I had it in my resolutions to finish the first draft. About a week later I got to work. In my post on routine, I went through the things that helped establish an actual writing habit. I was lucky enough to have a couple of hours a day to write. That blessing also helped me to write the bulk of the draft in two months. I would check my outline, decide what needed to be written that day, and then imagine individual scenes and chapters that it could be fit into.

That was my process. Every process is different, but I hope this encourages you in your writing journey. You can find your own way and figure out what works for you.

Salutations,

–Mabel

Art & Writing

Creative Rituals

Mabel1 Comment

Hello, Strangers. 

All my life, I’ve wanted to be a novelist. I wanted to write book series after book series and earn a nice living and some recognition. The problem for me has always been, simply, I am not a very good writer. The process of writing a structured novel has eluded me for years, and short stories are somehow worse. I lose the plot, I sound patronizing or preachy, I can’t find the words, my story is dull, characters lack dimension. In frustration and laziness, I have abandoned countless projects and forgotten the details of the rest. And that was when I was writing consistently at all. But one thing I’ve always had some ability in is writing poetry. I love poetry because it frees me to tell a story without constraint, or worries about proper form. I can meditate on the meaning of words and truly slow down to think about what needs to happen. it doesn’t have to make sense. And the poems don’t have to be good. They just have to exist. And therein lies the secret to ritual and routine.

Not poetry,

but love. 

The word amateur initially came to English through the French, and the French took amateur from the Latin amator which means “lover”. According to Merriam-Webster, in its earliest usage, it meant:

“one that has a marked fondness, liking, or taste.” 

An amateur writer, then, may be clumsy, inexperienced, and lack talent in the craft, (which is closer to how the word is used today) but they get into writing for the love of it. 

Merriam-Webster defines ritual as a ceremonial act or series of acts which are repeated in a precise manner. The type of ritual I am referring to today is not religious or spiritual, but a way to enforce a habit.

To be an amateur is to love something even if you have no skill in it. Ritual can be defined as the result of disciplined love to practice something until you have skill in it.

Every night after I got home from work, I would take off my uniform and replace it with a set of pajamas. I needed to be comfortable and warm. After it got dark and the rest of my household went to bed, I donned red lipstick and mascara, made myself a cup of something hot, gathered my journals and went to sit in the dim glow of the lamp in the dining room alcove. As low music played quietly, I would ruminate, and then, in a format that I knew I could trust, I would write. Here are some of the key elements that I’ve found help me when creating a writing ritual:

Time and Place

The first thing to consider is practicality. Do you only have time to write in the mornings or evenings? Build writing into that time. I typically waited until everyone was asleep and when it was peaceful and quiet, I got to work. It is important to be consistent, but flexible as needs must. The second thing to consider is place. Do you work better in the hustle and bustle, or do you need silence? Do you need the comfort of your bed, or the dignity of a desk? Are you alright with mess, or do you need a clean environment? You can build a space with whatever you have by making small adjustments as you need to.

Attire

I write whimsically; fantasy, children’s stories, poetry, etc., and I find that I work best in pajamas. I’m warm, comfortable, and able to contemplate quietly. The makeup I wear helps me to feel artistic and awake with my ideas. In my mind, it adds a layer of depth to my writing persona. What you wear can affect your mood and your view of yourself, and exercising creative control can help you to feel more confident when you create.

The Five Senses

Ritual relies significantly on the five senses, which are: sight, hearing, touch, taste, and smell. If you have a glass of wine and burn your favorite candle whenever you write, you have two different things to associate writing with. You may use a certain playlist, turn on the same lamp, and sit in the same place. You may find it more difficult to write without these things once you have a routine, but they can also help you greatly when you do use them. Much like grounding, these elements can give you a mental anchor to the task at hand. The things you associate with writing should be pleasant, but not distracting.

The Love of an Amateur

I mentioned in a previous post that I have a hard time writing humor into my stories because I always see people as sad. I would like to write funny stories, but I write sad things instead. I would like to write short stories and novels, but I write poetry and journal entries instead. Yet, this is not bad. I do not write funny stories yet. But through writing my sad things, I am learning how to incorporate laughter. Through years of writing poetry and journal entries, I have gained enough confidence and discipline to try novel writing again (and I am!). Don’t let your love for the craft die out! If you need to, begin your ritual or routine with warmups, or a medium that is familiar to you, and comfortable. Gain confidence and passion for it, gain experience and expertise, and then challenge yourself to do the hard things.

I hope these ideas can be helpful to you, and I look forward to writing more about writing, soon. With love,

–Mabel

Art & Writing

The Creative Process: Originality vs. Authenticity

MabelLeave a comment

Hello, all my Strangers! 

I woke up this morning to a sunlit living room so bright it could have been summer. For a moment I was filled with such joy at the prospect that I forgot where I was, and instead imagined I was in a pine forest in Oregon, standing in a live-in shop of curiosities. Yesterday it was cold and gray and I went on a walk to talk with God. As I walked through my neighborhood on streets I hadn’t seen in a while, He showed me stories. 

I walked past a turtle statue half buried beneath leaves, a statue of a flying pig and a brightly painted garden gnome. There was an engraved tablet which bore a family name, but which looked like a headstone, the dirt raked around it like a burial plot. For a moment, all around me, there were bumper stickers, lawn decorations, and porch lights in different shades of amber, and every single one of them was a story. For a moment, I was connected to a foreign place, and I realized that everything around me said something, and that all of these people were saying something. There are stories all around me, and I realized that they were available for my use also; after all, now you know about the frog, the flying pig, the gnome and the grave. I know that they will enter the stories that I write and the things that I paint. 

When it comes to creation, the internet is oversaturated with information. Millions of videos, images, sound clips, and web pages, spread across dozens of social media platforms and hundreds of websites. With all of this ‘content’ being produced, the rallying cry of the community is that of originality. Every other hour, a scandal emerges surrounding art style, art theft, imitation, consent, and the effects of AI. Tropes are dissected and spat on in every genre of fiction and people cry for the dismantlement of any recognizable character types and arcs. 

In the midst of these ideas, a new question has emerged. Is it more important to be original or authentic?

According to Merriam-Webster, the first definition of original is, “of, relating to, or constituting an origin or beginning.” But I happen to like the first part of their second definition better:

 “not secondary, derivative, or imitative…” And still the third is, “independent and creative in thought or action.”

One definition of authentic according to the same dictionary is, “made or done the same way as an original.” The next relevant definition is “true to one’s own personality, spirit, or character.”

I think we’ve made a mistake in separating originality and authenticity. In ‘Steal Like an Artist,’ Austin Kleon tells creatives…to steal. Again, most of us consume media on an hourly basis. We know what we like; we have our favorite shows, artists, and accounts. Some of us have curated thousands of ideas on Pinterest. These things that we love are true to our own personality, spirit, and character. This fulfills the requirements of authenticity. But if we steal traits from the things we love, doesn’t that make us unoriginal? If we created forgeries, maybe, but in taking and combining ideas we love, we are independent, and creative in thought or action. There will never be anyone like you. Even if you actually did make forgeries, they would never be the same as the originals. Everything that makes you different would change the painting. (That said, please do not make forgeries.)

All this time, we assumed that originality begot authenticity, but I believe that we have it backwards; authenticity begets originality.

How can we expect to create something wholly new in an ancient world? There is nothing new under the sun. Original work happens when you are exactly who you are. So be authentic.

Be an original.

–Mabel