Being a fairly upbeat sort of person who shouts from the rooftops about how fucking phenomenal it is to be a beginner, I also tend to be the sort of person who gets herself into some shit.
And let me just tell you: I’m in it now, kids.
So deep am I in it, in fact, that I am writing this blog post from an undisclosed location and may or may not be wearing 3 day old (wait – what’s today?) sweatpants.
As of NOW it’s full on, full throttle, full frontal (well, except for the sweatpants).
I am neck-deep in the wild tidal throws of finishing my first book of poetry: Vein.
We’re so close now I can practically taste the textured pages brushing against my eager skin. (Ya damn right it’s a sexual relationship. If you think I’m not going to make mad passionate love to this book you have gravely underestimated the degree to which I have lost my filthy mind over this project).
Vein is deeply important to me for (so very) many reasons and I’m giving her everything I have: time, attention, love, commitment, verve, devotion, muscle.
In the process, I’m learning rich and cool things about what it takes to see a massive creative project through to its completion. I’m stretching my capabilities and coming face to face with my limitations.
I’m learning to give and take (and push and pull) and ask for help where I need it (sounds easy; it is not easy).
I’m learning the deep need we all have for what Adam Phillips called “fertile solitude” and how hard it is to come by. Solitude is not something we generally allow ourselves because it can be scary to pull away.
In these obsessively social times we can get VERY TRIPPED OUT over the fear of pulling away even if we know it’s what we need (and deserve).
The fear of missing out is painfully real, troops.
And though FOMO may be a kick ass marketing strategy (Hurry! Your dream car / date / strappy sandals / steak knives are going, going, gone!), it sucks as a life strategy.
No artist can create something beautiful, robust, or meaningful without escape into the lush wilderness of that elusive, delicious place called solitude.
Writing this book is a personal journey and one that is changing me in more ways than I saw coming at the outset. (Surprise, right? Ah, we beginners are such divine, naive, beautiful creatures.)
So this week, I’m turning the tables on the blog. (Ohhhhh fuck yes, ninja babes.)
You see, we’ve been close for a while now and the thing is . . . I want something you have.
And I’m asking you – while I hide behind the scenes in my secret underground bunker of solitude – to write it on the walls of Glory Begin. Doesn’t have to be fancy, just has to be real.
Something I can feed on when I come up for air (and money and supplies and KIND bars and flashlights and coffee and more coffee).
I want your answer(s) to this question:
Tell me about the stuff you cling to that keeps you engaged with your creative soul work. Tell me why you do it even when it’s hard.
Tell me what you heard or saw or were told that made you look at your creative work in a whole new way. Tell me what made you better, smoother, happier, more confident.
Tell me the concept, phrase or juicy nugget of wisdom you have kept close to your heart all your creative life (or something brand new you just learned yesterday . . . hey, whatever, just tell me something good OR for the love of all the holy things put the coffee on, yes?)
Of course, I would NEVER ask you to give me something I don’t first give to you. So when you sign up to my mailing list at the top of this page, you will automatically receive my totally sexy, totally punchy, totally top-secret stealth list of 23 Ways to Unlock Your Inner Creative Badass.
You want this list, critters. This list has been described as “pure gold” and it is guaranteed to kick your wicked confidence into overdrive. (CONTENT WARNING: Adult Language) It’s all the BEST creative advice I have ever given and I have only given it because I LIVE IT.
And it works. (Go grab it! I’ll be here when you get back, I promise.)
Now: your turn. Jump into the comments and tell me about the greatest piece of creative advice you have ever received or given. I (and my ragged sweatpants) sincerely wish to hear about it.
The greatest creative advice is the advice you actually put to good use. [Click to Tweet]
So lay it on me, love.
I’m all ears. (Because apparently that’s what happens when you’re up to your neck in a damn thing, you feel me.)
I love that you are here with me and I cherish your input, always, always.
With all my deepest love and gratitude,
Allison Marie x