On writing and art

On writing and art 

I know logically the only way to write a book is to sit down and write it.
But what happens when you blank? You sit down and stare at the page and have no new ideas.
In theory everyone has a story, or a book inside them, isn’t that the old adage?
The older I get though the more and more I feel all my creativity is gone. I can still sit, I can still write,
but my brain is so full of stress and anxiety and the things that keep adults functioning as adults
that my brain has no room left for creative expression. Even when I make art, I do it with almost zero
forethought, I just sit down and do it. And it sometimes is excellent, and is often just meh.
Often i feel like i'm looking at art and images on instagram and just spewing others ideas back into
what i’m doing. Imitation is the highest form of flattery and all that, but still. Has my idea well dried up?
Does becoming an adult, becoming a mother use up so much of us that we lose our sense of creative
expression? Has all the weed I’ve smoked addled my brain? Well actually that last one is probably true.
I started smoking weed long before my brain had finished developing and my memory is completely shot.

 I’m writing this in March of 2020. The weirdest month of my life. Not just my life, the entire world is
in a crazy state of upheaval. Covid-19 the great pandemic, is in full swing. We’re in a world of social
isolating, quarantine, and closed borders. The logical next step for all of us locked up here is to make art.
Sit and write your book. Sit down and make that sculpture, paint that portrait, create and don’t let
this time that the world has gifted you go to waste. Practise social distancing by creating.
I’m going to try and focus my anxiety into creation instead of sitting and staring at the phone all day,
hyper focusing on facebook, and the panic. I’m currently on day four of self isolation. Not that I’m alone,
I’m with my family. We were on vacation in Disneyland when the announcement was made that Canada
and the US were going to start taking more severe action to keep our people safe and reduce the
spread of the virus. We got home on friday, one day before Disneyland shut its gates for the third time
in history. I imagine walking through the grounds would be completely surreal. It’s always so busy, having
it empty of people must suck some of the magic away. But we’re home, naturally we flew home in a
snowstorm, and nobody even wanted to go outside for the first two days. Trying to keep the children
entertained is interesting. Steve and I are natural introverts, so staying in isn’t a hardship for us,
keeping the kids entertained is becoming an interesting task. So there’s surprising little downtime to
think creatively. Even now, I've been interrupted at least four times, and I started this when the children
were still sleeping. It’s going to become increasingly more interesting as the schools have now been
shut down for the duration, and are unlikely to reopen until September. 

So here I sit typing away into nothing, trying to remember how to be creative, trying to remember how to
write. Trying to recapture the inspiration I had as a teen to make art. Trying to be like my grandmother
who crafted until she died. Trying to not be like my grandmother and actually see a project through to the
finish.  Desperately craving a freaking tim hortons coffee, because all of the coffee made at home pales
in comparison. Staring at a sculpture that I started before our trip, and trying to figure out a way to finish
it. How does one learn to be creative again, without all the wank? How does one reconcile being a
mother and an artist?  I guess the first step is to sit down and write.