Insight In Illinois

On the occasion of my Aunt N's birthday, several relatives and I visited her at her new home (the first time for me), complete with a horse pasture. N, along with Uncle D, bought this teeny, tiny house on stilts near a river, with a bunch of land. Add a fence and 4 horses and it's turned into a ranch. Without a barn. When I stopped by, Uncle D was in the process of building the stalls, as well as a large guest house. He pointed out where everything would be; a wall here, a fireplace over there. His creativity and construction skills have been proven time and again. There will no doubt be a wonderful barn and guest house in that space. 

Later, back in her teeny, tiny house, Aunt N described the plans for expanding it. Another big project. And all I could think of was that I couldn't picture any of it. Just seemed like an awfully big undertaking. I had a similar experience when visiting my cousin S. She lives in a big, old house on a tree-lined street. The visit was great. I got to meet her new baby and see a couple of her other kids when I dropped in for dinner. When I mentioned this to O, he asked "isn't the house beautiful?" My first reaction was, "it's a disaster!" I could tell he was shocked. That's because he (as well as S) can imagine how gorgeous it would be when the renovations are finished. I saw stacks of boxes and an unfinished staircase. 

The more I reflected on these two visits, I realized this lack of vision has been pervasive throughout my life. When my family moved from one state to another, my parents often chose a house with great "potential". I wanted a furnished house with the smell of chocolate chip cookies wafting through every room. My parents were always right; they picked the best houses for our family. And over the years and lots of household projects, each homes' potential was realized. Only when one of our homes had reached this "finished" state, was I able to see what my parents had been talking about all along. Pondering all of this led me to the following:

For a while now, I've been telling people a story about how I came to be working on the book project I should probably be working on right this very minute. The tale goes something like this: After years of trying to produce the next Great American Novel (and failing, time and time again),nearly two years ago, I stumbled into a small writing assignment. Really, just a request from an old friend. And it was work outside my comfort range as well. I struggled with the writing. As in got stomach aches and cried over the writing. But. I FINISHED the writing, work for which I was genuinely proud of myself. 

Around the same time, another friend offered me another small writing assignment. This new work was much simpler, but fairly boring. Again, I FINISHED the writing and handed in quite a decent article. I believe this was the day I had an epiphany about my creativity. It was: I don't have much. Certainly not enough to make up a novel out of my head. I couldn't even figure out how to fictionalize my own experiences. And instead of feeling depressed with this realization, I felt free. It was a great relief to no longer feel as if I had to live up to an expectation which was apparently out of my reach. 

Coming to terms with my limits enabled me to think about how I could apply my desire to write to a project I might actually be able to finish. Even in the early stages of the project, I could imagine the end. Knowing I was capable of completing something, and doing it well, to boot, was a new feeling for me. As I get closer to finishing, I'm becoming a little afraid. What will I do next? I'm not able to picture what my life will be like when I'm done. Will I think of a new project? Maybe I'll go in an entirely new direction? No way for me to tell; I'm just not that creative.