Hey Creative Crew,
It’s the eve of a midterm election as I write this, and it’s arguably one of the most emotionally charged, tense, high-stakes midterm elections I’ve ever voted in. Social media feeds, the radio, my neighbors’ yard signs, the lunchroom at the office—we’re all uncomfortably dialed in. There’s an undercurrent of fear, but there’s also hope. Hope that sanity will return. Hope that empathy, basic human decency, kindness, understanding, and love for one another will cast away the darkness.
We hope. We hope.
For creative people, be they full-time artists or moonlighting writers (like I am), hope is the biggest currency. Creative people collect thoughts and emotions, fabricating them into a cohesive idea manifested as a work of art, be it a painting, a story, or something else. They craft something tangible from sometimes unspeakable horrors and find new and innovative ways to radiate beauty. Most creative people I know do this without an audience and without patrons. They do it for the desire to create but also with hope.
Hope for a better tomorrow. Hope that, much like a bottled message adrift at sea, it’ll find the right person who needs this idea most.
One of the most important components of creativity is risk-taking—trying something new. We can’t mine the depths of our own souls if we don’t tap into a new vein or explore a new cavern. But it’s scary.
Risks don’t always pan out. Sometimes that incredible idea that awoke you at 3:15 AM glimmers with far less luster at 3:15 PM. And sometimes new ideas mean stepping outside of a comfortable rhythm. It can mean facing scrutiny, taking a big swing, and carrying feelings of fear and uncertainty across the finish line. But this, in itself, is also hope. We take risks because we hope we can share that piece of ourselves, that beautifully polished gem we mined deep for that the world could use right now.
This past month, I opened the door to a big risk that could open even more doors, or it could land with an embarrassing whimper. I submitted a pitch for a panel at the biggest comic con in Chicago. I reached out to writers, artists, and even a representative from a company that owns the character I want to talk about, asking them if they’d like to participate in a panel. I received enough votes of confidence to move forward, and now my pitch is out there in the ether, waiting for approval.
If it gets approved, it’ll be a whole new uncertain road because I’ve never hosted a panel before. I’ve certainly attended them. I’ve interviewed artists and writers, but I’ve never done this live in front of a room of fellow fans.
But I love the character I submitted a panel for. I enjoy talking to the creators who said yes. And I see it as my mission to help bring the subject of this panel back into vogue. Why? Because this subject is near and dear to my heart, it gives me hope, and I want to share that hope with as many people as I can.
It might not work, but that’s the risk of trying something new, of growing and innovating. Like the beautiful works of art, the movies and stories and pictures that stick with us, someone put themselves out there and took that risk.
Motivational
Face It: You Look Good
One of the things no one ever tells you about being the editor of a literary magazine is that before every issue, you’ll spend a great deal of time staring at the faces of strangers. More often than not, the only interaction you’ve had with these people is a few emails regarding the acceptance of their stories. It’s very much a business transaction in that sense. They’ve wowed you with a stellar piece of writing, and in return, you’re eager to host and share this piece with the world.
Yet, the act of sending a photo to someone, even a bio photo, feels more personal, doesn’t it? It’s being asked to share something intimate of ours with a complete stranger, something that we judge and pick at and cover with makeup and cream because we’re constantly worried about how we look.
Many of us balk when we stare at ourselves in the mirror. We notice the little imperfections. The encroaching zit underneath the chin. The single nose hair peeking out of our left nostril. The barely visible unibrow connecting left eyebrow to right. It’s maddening, but it’s our daily burden to carry. We know we’ll never look as amazing as those people in the magazines, but we face the public regardless, weighed down by a sense of humility at our own physical imperfections.
I don’t know about you, but I sometimes cringe at that face in the mirror. Not every day, but it happens. I don’t like the skin underneath my jaw that threatens to dip below my chin. My face isn’t chiseled enough. It makes me feel ugly sometimes, as my body doesn’t feel like an accurate representation of my mental persona.
We’re harsh judges, and I would argue that we’re too harsh on ourselves.
In every single one of those photos of strangers that comes into my inbox every other month, I can honestly say that we’re all looking good. We’re shining human specimens from all over the world, and I don’t see the imperfections some of us may be worried about.
I many not know you. I may not know when, where, or how you took that photo. I don’t even know if you doctored it a little bit (it’s okay if you did), but I do know that you look good. Seriously. You’re fine. Before every issue of Literary Orphans comes out, I upload some 30-odd pictures of strangers, and there’s not a bad looking person in the mix, including you.
Including me.
