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Complications of Creativity.

(This is more a mental dump, the first in quite a while. If it makes no sense, it's my problem rather than yours, lol.)

I've discovered that being ceaselessly creative has many pitfalls. It feels a little too... "cat lady" to merely churn out item after item after item and keep it to myself. The other side of that? Finding viable outlets is a tricky problem. I have that little mental issue that says I should share, to be social and let others see my stuff, but it's not easy. I do digital paintings, SketchUp design work, writing, poetry, airbrushing, a little music, a little digital drawing, a little wood working, a little knife making, a little blacksmithing, a little bit of rotary carving, and a dozen other things. I have no clue which of the hundreds of hobbies I love I will pick up next.

Some might say I could pare down the list of things I do, but I've tried and it doesn't work. At all. It's like trying to prevent a sneeze by cramming your fingers up your nose. The sneeze isn't stopped, it's just redirected. I'm tough to redirect. Yeah, I go in too many directions and I know it, but I enjoy moving from challenge to challenge and keeping my mind moving. Sitting still, as anyone who has ever met me, is not a good option for me. Even if my body is at full stop, my mind never quits. Never even slows down.

It creates a host of problems. One, I'm not the nicest guy you'll ever meet because I'm mostly stuck in my own head. Two, I feel like a corked bottle of beer that's been shaken: I'm over-pressured from the inside. I have no reasonable outlet where putting up my type of stuff won't seem... weird. I could put all of it the stuff here, but most folks here assume that I want feedback... truly, I don't want folks to waste their time unless I need help. I'd love to just put it out there and let the world have a look, understanding that I'm going to improve, but I'm enjoying finding the answers for myself. I like this place because it does give feedback, and I do not want to wear out that welcome.

So, my eyes wander elsewhere, and they find little to nothing. I could get a site. I've had many. The problem? Money. I don't have tons of dollars to put toward a creative outlet where I put up twenty different kinds of irrelevant creations. The world likes themes, and I can't really do themes because none of my stuff works together. Each is a solo item, and may have nothing to do with other items. May, may not, but it's uncommon for me to sit down and go "ooh, I might do a painting that ties in with that story I wrote." Not me.

I'm also hobbled by a problem: when I spend money on a project, like a site, my mind races to find ways it can earn it's keep, to pay for itself. Maybe even turn a profit. Any creative type can tell you that it's a trap. The last three times I did anything like that, I lost myself. No, I didn't go berserk, but I lost my touch in the work. I stopped thinking about what I wanted to do and started focusing on it making a profit. What's marketable? What's big? What would John Q. Public want to see? I lost my creative voice and replaced it with chasing a market. Yeah, I'd love to do what I do and make a friggin' fortune doing it, but it will never happen. I'm too small-time, I don't have a huge friend base, and I'm not market friendly. I'm weird, and the profitability of being weird died in the mid 1990s, at least for my particular kind of weird.

Blogs? Frankly, blogs seem too... Okay, here's where a nearly 30 year old guy starts to feel kind of old, but do you remember MySpace? Everybody and their brother's poodle had a MySpace page. Young people, not so young people, grandparents, grandkids, drunks, straight edgers, dopers, mopers, dreamers, hopers, hippies, yippies, yuppies, puppies, celebs, plebes, musicians and physicians. EVERYBODY had a MySpace page. Then came Geocities. Then Facebook. Then Twitter. Now? It's the blog. 99% of everybody who's active online, myself included, have a blog. Nobody comes to my blog because I don't advertise it, because I'm not proud of it. I realize that unless I am showing nude women and ways to counterfeit currency, mine is but a grain of sand on a million acre beach.

I kinda pride myself on being one-of-a-kind, yet blogs seem so... common. I don't want to make it sound like I have to be different, but I'd love to have a chance of standing out. Putting my ego on display, I know of very few people who have 20+ hobbies they're actively pursuing in their spare time. I do a blog, I'm another blogger. I'm lost in the crowd. Not a bad crowd to be lost in, but I want people to SEE what I do. The occasional wow isn't a bad thing for me. Some do not like their ego stroked, I don't mind it. I'll say it, I'm egotistical, but at least I'm honest about it, lol. The effort of uploading pictures, text, files seems wasted if I am the only person who ever sees it.

So, I'm jammed. I can keep doing my thing and keeping it to myself, or I can keep trying to find a place to put what I do. I doubt I'll find it, but that's life. In the end, I'll keep accumulating the things I do and maybe after I've kicked the bucket somebody will stumble upon it and make a fortune from it, as often happens. In olden times it's my understanding that the people whom we consider great like Melville, Shakespeare, Da Vinci, Poe, they were essentially poor slobs who were seen as weird. After their deaths, they were revered but it never did anything for them in life. It's pointless to hate that because nothing can change it. We're an obsessed culture with death. Sick, but understandable.

It's tough psychologically to realize that 99% of what I do, what I feel makes me who I am, is wasted because there's no way to get it in front of eyes unless I want to find niche outlets for each little hobby. If I go that way, I have no time left do what I do, lol.

Sometimes, it wouldn't be so bad to be like a friend of mine. He has one hobby, and it produces no product. He sits on the couch and watches football. He tapes the games and watches them again and again dozens and dozens of times through the year. That's it. Me? Can't do that. I have an inextinguishable urge to create things, to make things. Sometimes my life would be much easier if I could just sit on a couch and mindlessly watch a bunch of meatheads run into each other again and again until they both fall down.

Being weird might be novel, but it's a lot more work than it's worth sometimes. Most of the time.

Comments

I can relate to what you're saying. I wrote a novel, accidentally almost. It was just a by-product of something incredibly weird going on in my head and I had no idea what to do with it afterwards, so one of several solutions was to join WF, but it isn't that important to me. I don't want all the angst that comes with taking my writing seriously but I still hang around here because others do seem to appreciate what I write in small doses, but not as an entire novel. It was just a pastime really and that's all it was meant to do, pass time, so it was a success in that respect. Now I'm trying to move back to my other pastimes but they aren't that important either. We do things because we feel the need -- end of. I've had electronics as a pastime for most of my life but it would be difficult for me to point at anything and say that that was something that I made. It was just a way of passing time pleasantly. Such things are very personal and they make each of us unique. There's no need to advertise how unique we are though; that's a given. It's nice for someone to remind us of that fact occasionally though, so nice blog.
 
By the way, this post stands as a good lesson for lots of people. Know what painkillers are going to do to your system before you take a couple. I looked, and look, like a complete ass. :(
 
TJ1985;bt4402 said:
By the way, this post stands as a good lesson for lots of people. Know what painkillers are going to do to your system before you take a couple. I looked, and look, like a complete ass. :(

TJ, we're all a little off kilter here and all of us have days where we don't think of ourselves as nice. Don't worry about it, buddy.
 

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