Life as a creative oddball

On trying and failing to be a regular person

I remember walking down the hallway of my elementary school, running my hand along the wall, which was slick and cool and dotted with little holes. I remember I was alone, no one else in the hallway for some reason. I was likely on my way to the library. There was a bank of windows up ahead and the sunlight was streaming through, shining on the floor. I was glad to be alone. Glad for the opportunity to catch my breath.

I was aware, in that moment, of the constant background pressure, the indoctrination about work and career and money. I was aware that even as a child, society expected me to name things about my future, about how I would fit into the system. I was expected to identify what it was I would do to earn money as an adult, only the question was often asked in a much more definitive way.

What do you want to be when you grow up?

As I walked down the hall, I thought about this question. What did I want to be? I wanted to be myself. Though my dad’s office did have this very cool water cooler with cone shaped paper cups, I didn’t envision myself working in an office building…or anywhere. I wondered, would work feel like school? Like being contained? Trapped?

I suppose I thought a career was something that just happened. I suppose I thought that when I completed school and was an adult I would know what I wanted to be and the opportunity to be that thing would just magically show up.

So, I grew up. I finished school then went back to school then quit school then went back and finished again then went back again and finished again. And I worked at a variety of jobs. (Child me’s worst suspicions were confirmed. It did, in fact, feel like being trapped.)

Some of my favorite jobs were the ones I did as a temp - sitting alone in the back room of a design house sorting fabric swatches, sitting alone in the backroom of an art gallery stuffing envelopes. I didn’t have a desire to climb anyone’s ladder. I liked jobs that I couldn’t fuck up, that I could do whilst drinking Diet Coke. I liked jobs that enabled me to be invisible, the ones where no one yelled at me.

Yesterday, I saw a clip on TikTok of Cyndi Lauper talking about her days as a shop girl at Screaming Mimis. She said:

The one thing everyone said when you wanted to be an artist…was what will you do if you fail? And here I was trying to survive in the world as a regular person and failing at everything.

That’s how I’ve felt for my entire life- trying to survive as a regular person and failing at everything. Only, I’m not an incredible talent like Cyndi Lauper. And the thing never magically showed up for me, even after I figured out what it was that I wanted to do - even though I was raised in privilege with an abundance of opportunities presented to me and all the love and support anyone could hope for.

The rise of the internet, blogging, social media - and later, the dawn of remote work- was a dream come true for me. As a writer and visual artist (and intuitive,) the digital world seemed to open up this doorway to entrepreneurship, to working for myself. I saw a pathway for creating and sharing my work, for being who I am and finding the people who would want what I offer. A pathway to working from my own home, my own space.

Over the years, as I have shared my work online, I have been amazed and moved by the loving response I have received. Via social media, blogging, and other web spaces, I have met people I will know and love forever.

Every time I post anything anywhere and someone pushes a heart button or leaves a comment, I am deeply grateful. But nothing I have done online has ever enabled me to push through to the next level. I've made money as a creative entrepreneur, but I've never made enough money to be completely independent in my creative work.

There are a couple of reasons for this, but the primary one is that I am often unwilling to do the things that one needs to do to promote a business. I don't like to write market-y sounding sales pages. I don't like to send people through sales funnels or create false urgency. I don’t want to convince anyone that they should like me or that they should buy what I’m selling.

Also, I change. A lot. As a creative, I dive into things, become obsessed with them, then work through them and move on to something else. I understand the need for branding and consistency, but I can’t confine myself that way. Once I declare, this is it, other its rise to the surface.

And I feel a responsibility to my audience. I get that if you followed my Instagram account because you wanted to see my paintings, you don’t necessarily want to see reels about my garden or requests that you read my writing.

For this reason, I decided to start yet another Insta account last week - this one for my digital drawings. It would be all digital drawings, I thought, thus saving my current Instagram people from having to look at digital drawings when what they wanted to look at was paintings. But I quickly experienced a technical glitch that allowed me the space to back up for a minute and think, wait. Why am I doing this?

Afterall, my current Instagram account is already a second account that I branched off of my original account so that original account people wouldn’t have to look at paintings.

Lately, when people ask me how I am, I’m not sure what to say. Am I in a freefall? A death spiral? Am I floating and waiting for the next thing? My creativity is off the charts, but my bank account is getting nervous. My body seems to be broken, but my heart is in working order.

I’m not like other women my age, but that’s okay. I’ve never been like the other people my age.

There’s nothing wrong with being a regular person but there’s also nothing wrong with not being one.

The thing is, child me walking to the library, feeling the comfort of the little holes in the wall, did not know how to answer the question, What do you want to be? but she did know who she was. She knew what she loved and what she didn’t. And she knew that she wanted to somehow, someway, live of a life of her own creation filled with stories and art and fiery love.

The thing didn’t magically happen when she thought it would, but there’s still time.

Right now, I’m falling with my arms outstreched - unrestricted - through the blue sky with a heart on fire.

I’m writing every day.

And drawing every day.

And hoping that I will find work ( you know, the kind you do in exchange for money) that lines up with my values and my natural inclinations. Maybe if I keep showing up - messy, layered, and strange - I will end up where I need to be. Like magic.