I’m going to be writing about what it means to be creative, which will lead to some advice about how to be creative. My advice won’t be usual, though, and it may even be a little disturbing, but I think it will be an accurate representation of the creative process for many people. There is other, less disturbing advice on being creative out there, and I advise you to seek that out too. But the advice I’m going to give here will probably disturb you unless you’ve experienced what I’m talking about, or unless you’re a sociopath. If you’re a sociopath, please, read on. You’ll enjoy this. Much of the other advice out there really is good, by the way. If you’re not interested in the voice of the sociopath, seek out what the Care Bears have to say about creativity. All of it will have some validity. I’d recommend seeking it out even if you choose to read this post.
Artists and their Art
I’m going to start by illustrating my points from two films: New York Stories and Bullets Over Broadway. I won’t be discussing it here, but I would also recommend the film S.O.B.
New York Stories is an anthology film featuring three short films by Martin Scorsese, Francis Ford Coppola, and Woody Allen, respectively. Scorsese’s and Coppola’s films aren’t at all characteristic of their usual work and are wonderful, magical, and worth watching. Allen’s contribution is a hilarious abstract of his entire life’s work. If you can pick up or stream these films, don’t pass them by.
Scorcese’s short, Life Lessons, is about New York artist Lionel Dobie (perf. Nick Nolte) and his much younger live-in protégé and lover Paulette (perf. Rosanna Arquette) immediately before a big opening for one of Dobie’s shows. They have become estranged but are still living together. Dobie remains sexually obsessed with Paulette, while Paulette continues living with Dobie to be mentored by him and to receive some confidence in and validation of her work as an artist from him.
He continually withholds his praise, however, always coming back to, “Well, what do you think?”, which increasingly frustrates her. She, in turn, teases him sexually almost to the point of torture while still withholding herself from him, largely as punishment for his refusal to validate her work. I think she would even have been happy with a clear invalidation, for that matter — so that she could know she was wasting her time. But she didn’t get anything from Dobie either way. This dysfunctional dynamic, combined with how difficult it is to live with Dobie (he can only paint with his music on at almost concert level volumes), ultimately drives her away in a rage right before his show.
But what’s particularly interesting about the film is its depiction of the artistic process. The more tense, dysfunctional, and intense this dysfunction became, the better Dobie was able to paint. Her screaming and their shared frustration seemed to fuel him creatively. On the night of the show, he attends alone, and at the end we see him recruit a new young female protégé, one clearly hoping to be mentored by him, and clearly intended to serve as his perverse, dysfunctional inspiration for his next project.
Now just hold this picture in your mind while I move on to the next film: Bullets Over Broadway. Bullets is about young, idealistic playwright David Shayne (perf. John Cusack) who seems to be seeking fame with marginal talent. He cuts a deal with a mob boss to get financing for his play: in exchange for financing, the play will star the mob boss’s girlfriend, Olive Neal (perf. Jennifer Tilly). To both keep her safe and to make sure that David lives up to his end of the bargain, the boss assigns hitman Cheech (perf. Chaz Palminteri) to attend rehearsals.
In the course of rehearsing the play, however, David’s bad writing is confronted by the professional actors he hired. Cheech, sitting in the position of the audience and the critic, virtually rewrites the play with David as it is being rehearsed: Cheech has a talent for character, narrative, pacing, and lines that David doesn’t. In short, Cheech is a real writer.
When the play goes to performance, it is universally praised, with the exception of Olive’s acting. Olive is not only a bad actress but something of an idiot. When that becomes apparent to everyone, Cheech does what needs to be done: he drives her out to the docks and shoots her, dumping her body in the water. Olive’s part is then played by a professional actress and the play goes on to be widely acclaimed and to a national tour.
What I’d like us to consider here are two characteristics of the artist beyond talent:
1. You’re willing to kill for your work. Short of that, you’re certainly willing to do anything else. It’s the work that matters.
2. What you think about your work is what matters. You know that because you’re the artist. You may listen to others, but in the end, it’s what you think that matters.
Now, you’re reading this post to learn how to develop your creativity. I have two questions for you:
1. Are you willing to kill for your work? No, I’m not asking metaphorically. I want to know if you’re really willing to kill someone if that’s what it took to perfect a great work of art. What are you really willing to do to create something great? For anyone with any kind of moral compass, the answer is always “No, I’d never kill anyone,” so let me follow up with another question: If it really came down to it, would you at least be seriously tempted?
2. Do you think external validation for your work is irrelevant, at least while you are creating it?
If you don’t answer “Yes” to both of those questions, you’re not really an artist yet, and your creativity will be hampered. You’re in the position of Paulette, who wants to please an audience and get praised for it (in this case, Dobie), or David, who wants to get famous. But you’re not focused on the work itself. You’re focused on drawing external resources inward (which is narcissism) instead of projecting internal resources outward (which is creativity).
Both films affirm this answer in their own ways. Dobie’s refusal to validate or invalidate Paulette’s work was actually the best thing for her, the thing most likely to transform her into an artist. Asking, “What do you think?” directed her to the only question that matters, at least during the creative process. He was trying to get her to fall back upon her own resources, to exercise her own critical judgment of her own work, to act and think like she knew what she was doing.
Everyone wants a great review: don’t get me wrong. But while you’re creating, what you think is primarily what matters. Getting feedback on the finished product — if the feedback is professional, good, and focused on your intent for your work — that helps too. But in the end, it’s what you think that really matters. But do you know what needs to matter even more than your opinion of the work? More than anything else, in fact, even more than you yourself? The work.
Not your reputation, your praise, your recognition, your self-image as an artist, your theory of art, your ideals about art, or the politics of your art: just the work itself. That’s why Allen’s representation of the true artist was willing to kill to perfect his play. It was easy for him because he was a hitman, but I think the artist part of him would have been just as willing to kill himself for his work if, somehow, that is what it took to perfect it. At least in theory: in reality, that’s never the case. Suicides for art are generally by pseudo-artists seeking fame.
If you know what it’s like to selflessly love your children, I think you know what I’m talking about, but I only say that with the caveat that to develop as an artist you need to understand that your work really isn’t your baby. That means you’re willing to sacrifice anything within the work itself to perfect the work. The real killing takes place during the creative process, within the creative work itself.
Creativity vs. Narcissism
Next, I’d like to return to the idea that creativity is the act of projecting internal resources outward. It’s not unusual, of course, to see an artist’s work as a representation of his or her experiences. Perhaps the best statement to this effect is Wordsworth’s 1800 Preface to Lyrical Ballads. But that’s only partly what I’m talking about.
What I really mean to allude to here is the artist’s management of emotional resources to create art (also the subject of Wordsworth’s Preface, by the way). When you create anything, you’re usually going to have to tap in to some reserve of emotional resources that allows you to create, or to some defining experience that has somehow created the person that you are, or to a compelling emotional need. Whatever that emotional core is, you will draw from it to create, and your creations will somehow be reflective of that.
Now I’m not talking about “writing what you know,” and I’m not claiming that all art is autobiographical. That is dealing with art in the realm of fact: character, plot, setting, etc. Content is interchangeable: the emotional core of a work is what I’m talking about. What makes Stephen King keep writing horror? What makes Nicholas Sparks keep writing romance? Why did Zane Grey focus on adventure and the west? In each case, the author’s creativity comes from some kind of inner emotional core, but that emotion varies widely by artist. It may be fear in some people, anger in others, romantic love in others, sex in others, or depression, or joy, or politics, or God, or just one specific woman or man… all of these result in very different creative products.
I have a friend who is an aspiring novelist who, years ago, left his wife to live with another woman for awhile. It didn’t last long: he returned to his wife, his daughters are healthy and beautiful and grown up and married, and he’s still happily married to his wife and childhood sweetheart. But that interruption of his marriage still haunts him and inspires a lot of his work. He writes about very dark, even demonic things, but he writes about them from an ethical position, even if those ethics are never specifically articulated in the work itself. Sometimes his work is so twisted he worries about himself: How am I able to write this stuff? Where is it coming from? He isn’t the demon. He’s just observed it very closely and even held its hand for awhile, and he still remembers what it looks and feels like.
Now I’d like to add a caveat here: not everyone writes like this. Some writers (let’s just talk about writers for now) — and these are among the most productive professionals — see writing as a bag of tricks that they can manipulate expertly to any effect. But this meme here exists for a reason: talking about your art is a seemingly narcissistic enterprise. That’s why I started this post with a longish discussion of two films. It’s too easy to spend too much time talking about yourself when writing about the subject of creativity.
The problem is, if you’re a writer writing about creativity, you have to talk about yourself (viz. Wordsworth). So please bear with me as I talk a little bit about myself right now to illustrate my points in more detail. I am going to try to limit this self talk to what is most useful while discussing creativity.
When I first started writing creatively — mostly poetry back in the late 80s and 90s — I found my emotional life became something of a rollercoaster. I found myself releasing emotions that I wasn’t aware existed. What I’d been before that was a generally affable Mr. Spock with some temper and stress problems. My main way of confronting the world was rationally and logically. That’s why I pursued a Ph.D. in English rather than an M.F.A. even though I was interested in writing creatively. Ph.D.-style writing, which usually operates as a rational exercise, came more easily to me.
When I started teaching Creative Writing: Poetry at my current institution in 2008 I found myself writing poetry again. I was past graduate school, past my dissertation, soon to be past my book, so I was able to write something other than papers. And again I confronted the emotional rollercoaster. I started writing again, seriously, early this year: again another emotional rollercoaster, though perhaps this time the rollercoaster prompted my creativity rather than was created by it. And this is scary: I found myself on rare occasion manipulating my interactions with strangers in order to be able to create something from them (And I mean total strangers, not anyone I’d ever had more than one conversation with, so if you know me, quit worrying, at least for now).
I do like messing with the people I know, but that’s a form of play, and they always know what’s going on. Okay, almost always, and I usually try to tell them if they don’t. My children are immune: don’t worry about that. My eight year old daughter has already mastered a range of disapproving facial expressions to throw at me, and my four year old daughter is the household tyrant. Someone needs to protect us all from her. But what I found myself doing this time was different: it was more along the lines of that U2 song “The Fly” (video linked below): “It’s no secret that a conscience can sometimes be a pest / It’s no secret that ambition bites the nails of success / Every artist is a cannibal / Every poet is a thief / All kill their inspiration / And sing about the grief.” My basic ethos is that you don’t use people to achieve ends. I’m very Kantian that way. But I found myself doing it, and it felt wrong and vampiric.
I was willing to kill for my art.
I think I’m okay with that, but I’m watching myself very closely.
But more to the point about the creative process (see how narcissism slips in so very easily?): when I am able to write something, I have to manipulate emotional material. And that emotional material has to be linked to a word, an idea, or an image. But once I have distinct emotional material linked to a distinct image or word or line, I can write. I usually think next of poetic form — which poetic form is best suited to this content — and then I write.
Art and Its Sources
Now I’ve been publishing my poems on my blog since about January of this year, and I’m moving toward publishing my first book of poetry. In every case I found some emotional content, latched onto it consciously and deliberately, found words for it, and wrote. But I’d like you to consider the variety of emotional content that we experience every day: it ranges from deep, long-term commitments to fleeting thoughts. However, when you turn any of those into a creative work, they all develop the same profile: they seem big and important.
That’s just not always the case subjectively, though. On more than one occasion, I have had people close to me ask me some specific questions about my personal life because of the poems I’ve written. Are you okay? Need to talk? Alright, who is she? I totally understand that: the questions always reveal the insights of a friend who knows me. And if every poem that I wrote had the same emotional profile, particularly the one implied by the poem, I would need friends asking those questions.
Furthermore — and here we’re getting into territory that helps us interpret as well as create art — whenever I grab an emotion and turn it into a poem it becomes something else. Whatever the emotion was that I first relied upon to create is transformed in the creative process, so that the emotion communicated through the work is in somewhat different form the emotion present in the finished work. T.S. Eliot’s “Tradition and the Individual Talent” has become for me, therefore, more than a significant theoretical work from the early twentieth century. I now understand it as a personal statement with some applicability to me.
So, you’ve read this far: very far. Over 2500 words far. I think you deserve to have it all boiled down to a few bullet points. So here you go. If you want to create,
- Care about the work itself above all else.
- As a corollary:
- Forget about yourself: think only about the work.
- Forget about being a writer or artist. Focus on writing or creating art.
- Forget about being creative. Focus on creating.
- Forget about what other people think. What does the work do for you?
- And forget that self-conscious assumption that your work is crap, which is always just fear of rejection. I’m going to break up with him/her before s/he breaks up with me.
- Do whatever it takes to grab that emotion that will allow you to create.
- But don’t be a sociopath. People are always more important than things: “Every thing that lives is holy.”
- Create. If you want to be creative, create.
I’d like to conclude by articulating an unspoken assumption that’s been guiding my thoughts so far. You actually need to know something about your art. You need to know its history, master its conventions, understand the theories behind it. I’ve been able to refer to a couple of texts about creativity here only because I’ve read them. You need to train your knowledge of your art academically. By “academically” I don’t necessarily mean for college credit, but by studying the field systematically. And you need to train or develop your taste. If you don’t develop your taste, you’ll be one of the worst kinds of artists: you will believe that only your own opinion about the work matters, and your opinion will suck. You’ll be an idiot about your own work. Good luck with that.
Final bit of advice: quit thinking about being creative. Quit studying being creative. Quit reading about being creative. Go out and create something. Above all else, quit being such a chickenshit. Create. Become a god.