Author’s note: This is part two of a short series on how I overcome creative dread; click here for Part I. Both parts of this essay are a bit abstract, so I’ve inserted my inner thoughts in italic type to create clarity. You will find the steps of my creative process in bolded type. I hope there is something within that you relate to or can use for yourself. If not, that’s okay, too.
Part one of this essay discusses the steps I take every time I start a creative project. The brain dump, the doodles, looking at every possible solution. But even though I was sharing my creative process, I still didn’t trust it enough to believe it would turn into a complete, two-part series I felt satisfied with.
I was still very much trapped inside a metaphysical manifestation of the certain dread that overcomes me every time I start a new project. I was stuck in a giant gelatinous cube. I have been in many giant gelatinous cubes, with different flavors of jello, different floating fruits and marshmallows, and of many different sizes. I look around, make a game plan, and declare, “I will eat my way out!”
Less than 500 words took over nine drafts and a ridiculous amount of encouragement from Al Davis, my favorite professor from VCU’s Robertson School of Media. This encouragement is a privilege I no longer have. Writing this piece without it feels scarier than I thought it would.
I feel creative dread everywhere in my body. I feel it in my stomach; I feel it in my teeth. I decide to update my computer software for the first time in four years to make my laptop inaccessible to me. It doesn’t change anything. There is still an essay left to be written.
Instead of eating my way through the gelatinous cube like I said I would, I tell myself I’m not hungry. I claim to like the cube. I pretend I don’t know how to write anymore and distract myself. The floating marshmallows and fruit which once offered wisdom now serve as beautiful distractions. Something pretty to look at while I twiddle my thumbs.
I wrote part one of this essay in Fall 2021. I fully intended to write part two in the same month, but I never did. I felt relieved to not be asked about where part two was. I’ve avoided referencing part one because I thought I could successfully dodge writing the second half. Approaching this piece a year later, I find myself amused with the knowledge that no matter how many projects I am tasked with, this certain dread continues to haunt me.
The question may be on your mind: What the heck was I doing for a year to avoid this blog post? Why were we avoiding such a low-stakes task? To tell you the truth, I don’t have an answer to either question. I watched a lot of Big Brother, I made and deleted my online portfolio (rebuilding it is the next big task I’m avoiding), and I’ve continuously been doing a whole lot of nothing. Even while writing this, I’m microdosing avoidance by watching Dancing with the Stars. Why is it so hard for me to commit myself completely to this?
I get up; I sit back down. I read other pieces from the blog. Is it writer’s block? Is it worse? Is it me? It’s not. I’m terrified of writing the wrong thing. Write another draft. I think I genuinely forget how to write a sentence. Start with something smaller. The more I doubt myself, the more viscous the jello gets until it stops me completely.
I have to remind myself that I’m a person outside of this. It’s okay to take a break and come back. It’s okay to ask for help.
Unsurprisingly, my process has changed in the last year. This can be primarily attributed to the fact that I am building my portfolio rather than struggling to make my work match a rubric.
There is beauty in accepting an ever-changing process. What works for one project will not work for another. Letting go of what doesn’t work and saying, “I’ll see you later” to a part of your process can feel like a betrayal. I have to remind myself it’s necessary. My doodles did nothing to serve me in writing this essay, so I stopped doing them. I’ll see if they work for the next project. Instead, I make mood boards and collages to find inspiration. I go on walks and record the random ideas I get in my voice memos for later. And, my favorite addition to my process: people. There is nothing more helpful to me than having another human to bounce ideas off of.
Fresh eyes can see fruit I haven’t tasted yet, fruit that makes me excited to start chomping my way through again. Other sets of teeth show me different ways to chew. I am no longer eating my way out of this cube of doubt and anxiety and dread and ideas by myself. It’s easier now.
The air outside of the cube is crisp and fresh. The giant gelatinous cube is not nearly as big as it felt from the inside. It is time to move into the next cube.
About the Author
Madi Jarvis is an English and Creative Advertising student from Columbus, Ohio. When she’s not consulting in the Writing Center, she can be found updating her Letterboxd with a coffee in hand.
Photo by Volodymyr Hryshchenko on Unsplash.
from the writing center at virginia commonwealth university 