I’ve long struggled with believing I have a creative gene. I think that’s common for most creatives, feeling like you have the agency or the “right” to create something. For me, I believe the lie that what I make won’t do anything: it won’t add to life, and it certainly won’t inspire. But is that the point? Is the point of every book or painting or poem or song to inspire? Or is the point that it was created in the first place?
Thats not to say that there aren’t books or movies out there that are downright terrible or that the scale for how good or bad something doesn’t make a difference; it certainly does. But I think the fact that the thing was created: the fact that she sat down to write the words in the few minutes of silence during nap time; the fact that he dusted off the chair in the office and fished out his paintbrushes; the fact that they found the space between rhythm and harmony and created something. The fact that they tried, just for today, to make the world a tiny bit better with their voices and their words and their souls, why, yes I do believe that’s something.
You may not ever be the best at what you are passionate about. But I don’t think that’s the point; I think the beauty of creativity is the fact that you, a complicated, messy human being, complete with a soul and a heart and a mind, somehow encouraged within yourself the bravery to just.start.the.thing.