Creative momentum

May 27, 2009


When things are going good, from a creative standpoint, they typically continue to go good. One thing leads to another, and before long you’ve spilled out several great things in a matter of days. It’s the nature of creativity – it feeds off of itself.

In all things creative, momentum drives us from average to heady.

When I encounter these peaks of momentum, I cherish them. Like anyone who considers themselves part of the creative industry – whether a freelance artist or a copy slinger – I understand the fragility of creative momentum. It’s easy to rest when you’re at that peak, to coast for a while as your mind continues to work. But you pay for it later.

Oh, man. Do you pay for it later.

Let’s quickly define something. By “creativity,” I’m talking about the act of creating something original. Not just thinking quirkily, but – in my case – actually writing something, or photographing something.

Thanks to our recent move and a lack of opportunity, the past month has seen my creative momentum hit a screeching halt. It’s hit the bottom, begun on the next hill in earnest, and rolled backward, resting finally in a valley of uninspired funk. Some call it a rut. I call it a chasm.

Some may find solace in this. It has certainly brought me back to earth. During those times when I have convinced myself that there is such a thing as creative talent, that it’s not simply a tweak of perspective and is an honest skill (and trust me, despite my sarcastic leanings otherwise, I rarely feel confident enough to claim a heightened creative talent) it’s humbling to find myself at the bottom again.

Struggling for ideas. As if creativity was something you had to work at.

And there’s the rub. Even the most creative people have to work at this. Even those to whom writing – or photography, design, music, acting – come naturally.

In fact, the people who work the hardest at being creative are the people who are the most successful at it.

They’re successful because they never stop trying. During their downtime, they stay creative. They continue thinking. They continue working. They are always working.

Charging up the same hill. Gaining speed to overcome the troughs. Continuously thinking harder to maintain the momentum of creativity, to gain speed, to leave the uninspired moments behind.

For me, it’s one blog post, a handful of pictures, and a few projects for work. Nothing amazing. But at least I can say I’m finally beginning the climb out of this chasm.

Again. And certainly not for the last time.

Tags: On..., Photography, Writing |

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The most dangerous job

May 22, 2009


Looking at my hands, palms down, from left to right…

Two healing scars on my left thumb. One from trying to open a paint can with a screwdriver, the other from a vicious cardboard cut while taping a box.

One recovering scab on my right thumb, from a door frame that had seemingly popped out of the woodwork.

One cut on the pad of my right pointer finger, picked up from the edge of a plastic pasta salad container. This one hurt the worst.

A series of rough patches of skin on the top of my right ring finger. Dry weather, constant scrapes and a lack of upkeep over the past two weeks are the culprits.

A gash on my right pinkie, thanks to getting in between the fence and our dog, who was getting a little too uptight while meeting the neighbor dogs.

Add to this the aches, bruises, scrapes and pains that accompanied the move, and I can’t imagine anything more dangerous than being a professional mover.

Tags: Home |

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On moving

May 17, 2009


I haven’t written anything in a while, and I have a lot to say.

You’ll have to forgive me. It’s been three days since we said goodbye to our first home.

And I can’t help but be surprised how much I miss it.

Though we spent the past two and a half months working to buy and sell a home, the move crept up on us. Despite the culmination of events – events that led us from desperate to frantic to endlessly busy in just a few weeks – I am still shocked by how empty our house could become, how it happened so fast, how I was completely unprepared to let go.

How, despite spending months trying to get rid of it, I still wished we could have made it work out. Stay a little longer. Hang out one last time.

It took two trucks and a handful of eager movers to completely gut our house. When it was finished, I walked from room to room, snapping pictures of my favorite features, taking it all in – as empty and clean as when we moved in, with little change aside from seven years worth of wear.

Kerrie shed a few tears. But I kept myself insulated from it, fearing that I’d shed the same tears. I looked forward, not behind; blinded by anticipation, I did what I could to grind out the hours. I unpacked the house several times in my sleep. I imagined where things would go, what I could do, what surprises were in store.

But that last night, I couldn’t help myself. “Here I am,” I thought. “My last night in my first home.”

Our first home. Where we planned our marriage. Brought home a dog. Trained a dog. Nursed little nips from a dog. We got married and bought cars and became adults. We formed our careers though several hiccups. I began writing in the dormer. I began reading again in the dormer. I learned about my new job in the dormer and privately celebrated in the dormer.

It was Sierra’s first home. Our first child. Her first steps, first words, first teeth, first joys and pains. She learned how to be a person in that house. She fell into our lives in that house.

There are a handful of things I’ll always remember. The creaky floors outside of Sierra’s room. The nights sitting in a rocking chair, with only the glaring light of the hall illuminating my book as I lulled Sierra to sleep. The night I listened to John Edwards and Dick Cheney as they debated in the summer of 2004. And the night I watched the first politician I truly believed in elected President four years later.

A lot of life was lived in those walls. But I’m thankful for one thing: the first years in that house were something Kerrie and I had to ourselves. They are memories we hold closely, memories that only we can claim. And likewise, that house is something that we can share with Sierra – a reminder of the days before our family had become four, something special that Sierra gets to remember, to her ability, in the upcoming years.

This new house begins a new chapter. In a few weeks, baby boy will be born. Life will get more complicated, will require more time and more space. And with our new home, we have it. It’s the perfect marking point for what we had and what we are about to become.

We are lucky. We found a house we wanted, put our house on the market, and were lucky enough to still snag it months later. We were able to make it quick. Harried, but painless. We were able to find people to help us – people who we thank for all eternity, from our families to our friends, from our Realtor Briana to the kind souls who owned our home before we moved in.

I miss the old house. But I love this one just as much. And once I come to grips with the idea that my memories are still around, despite the new location, I’ll slowly forget about what we had and focus on only what we have.

All of our stuff is here. It’s strewn across the house, scattered throughout each room like beads of mercury, dispersing in every direction, seeking level ground, but it’s here all the same.

And room by room, things are looking more comfortable. More like what we left behind. More like home.

Really, it’s already there. We’re here. We’ll continue to grow here, will celebrate new lives and new milestones.

This is our new base. Our new home. All that’s changed is the location.

Tags: Career, Friends, Home, Isaac, On..., Vilhauer |

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Print is dead, long live print

May 11, 2009


Sorry, everyone. I don’t meant to get all Old Man Vilhauer on you.

But can we stop the ongoing “Print is Dead” argument?

Print isn’t – and never will be – dead. It may not be in first place. It may not even be the social norm. But there will always be a part of us – most of us, that is; those of us who aren’t robots – that will long for something more durable, something tangible we can flip through, something we can dog-ear and drop hastily into our pocket, on the side of the bed.

I am positive that magazines and newspapers in their current state will continue to decline. We may be forced to pay more for these services. Quick information is too convenient and too easily accessed to wait for, so magazines will focus on features and other long-form writing.

But books aren’t in danger. Not yet. So let’s not try to raise warning flags because we’re looking for something to scream about.

Things will change, but print will still be around for a long time.

After all. We’ve all got electric heat. But who doesn’t love a campfire?

Tags: Books, Literature, Writing |

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64 crayons

May 10, 2009


When I was in grade school, the trek to buy school supplies was a momentous occasion. It was a license to get new stuff, served fresh from the school district thanks to a one-page white sheet detailing all of the supplies we’d need for the year.

Often, there were items that seemed superfluous – 18-color watercolors we’d use once, a straight edge we’d use more often to launch paper missiles than we’d use in art class. But there was always one constant – crayons, at least 16.

One year, in an act of kindness I still remember, I was given every grade schooler’s art-supply-list dream: the 64-crayon box of Crayola. The one with silver, bronze and gold. The one that said, “I have 64 colors, and I am a better person than you.”

That night, the night before school started, my mother sat down and, per the school district’s suggestion, began writing my name on all of my school supplies. On my ruler. On my eraser. On my pencils and on my pencil bag. And then, though it wasn’t needed and seemed ridiculous to the point of insanity, on each of those 64 crayons.

Imagine that. Writing “Corey V.” on the sides of 64 crayons, each one seeming smaller and smaller, each one causing more and more hand cramps.

I still think of that today. It’s what I use to remind me of the bond between a mother and a son. And it’s proof that, despite how distant I’ve been in my life – and despite how callous I can seem – my mother has done things for me that I’ll never begin to know.

I see those things firsthand, now. The sacrifices that Kerrie has made in order to make sure Sierra has the best life possible – things that our little girl will never remember: gifts of time and energy and attention, career changes done specifically for her benefit, each worried minute when she’s sick, each patient second when she’s misbehaving.

Sure, fathers are there too. But the bond is different. Mom’s get a head start – a 40-week head start. A head start that strengthens the bond, not into something better than a father’s bond, but into something different. Something a little more patient.

Something that can lead a mother to write the same name, hundreds of times, smaller and smaller, just, in the rare chance that it could happen, to protect her son from losing his precious silver crayon.

That’s my mom. And in a way, that’s all of our moms.

Happy Mother’s Day, Mom. And Happy Mother’s Day, Kerrie.

Tags: Isaac, Sierra, Vilhauer |

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One quiet corner

May 5, 2009


Everywhere I turn, a box. A human. A pile of belongings belonging either to us or to a visitor. The urge to put things away balances with the urge to give up and hope things will simply put themselves away.

Over the last four days, our house has shrunk. Boxes are collecting in the corners like spider webs, climbing the walls; filled and taped and labeled, they hold our stuff tight, promising to fit neatly in organized rows when it’s their turn to be loaded into the moving truck.

At the same time, Kerrie’s family is staying with us, in town to celebrate the life of the family patriarch, our house serving as a base for her parents and sister during the difficult grieving time.

Despite the extra people and the extra stuff – and especially the extra mess – there are corners of the house that seem empty. Our computer desk and our bookshelves have been wiped clean, ridded of all non-essentials, serving as the base model of a perfect office. It’s in this area I sit. Just to get away for a second.

Before I go back to packing. Navigating a house we’ve suddenly outgrown, looking forward to a move but dreading the act, knowing that despite our love for our new home, and despite the bonds we hold with our family, this house that we’ve outgrown will always be our first.

Though it hardly measures up, the last few days have put things into perspective. If I we can let go of the ones we love the most, we can surely move on from this home.

Tags: Home, On... |

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On losing a great grandfather.

May 1, 2009


I never knew any of my great grandfathers.

Most of us probably never got the chance. Nature doesn’t make it easy, and despite advances in technology and medicine, it’s still difficult to make it to 80 years old, a time when you’re most likely to have great grandchildren. For men, it’s even harder.

I never knew any of my great grandfathers, but Sierra’s known two: Great Grandpa Joe and Great Grandpa Burt, both on Kerrie’s side.

Yesterday, Great Grandpa Burt passed away. Suddenly, without warning, in his sleep. Peacefully and with dignity.

I’ll admit, I’m without easy words. Though I’ve gone through this before with my own grandfather, it seems so foreign – to see a man who has been so large a part of so many lives just leave the world without warning, leaving his wife of 63 years – Kerrie’s grandma Mardell – and the rest of us behind, lamenting, celebrating and remembering.

A World War II veteran. A wildly successful businessman. One of the kindest people I’ve ever had the privilege to know – a man who instilled caring and pride and common sense into every member of his family, from his children to his grandchildren.

His range of influence reaches farther than anyone I’ve known. Every name leads to another, each handshake holding the memory of a thousand more. Burt saw things I’ll never see, lived lives I’ll never imagine. Took everything as it came, with knife between teeth, crawling through life when needed and relaxing when the time was right. He fought wars I’ll never fight, flew next to French authors and catered ice cream to South Dakota’s future leaders.

He held every memory close, held each smile as if it would escape him. Manifesting in more of a frown, struggling to stay hidden despite the grasping urge to be set free, each smile came wryly, as if a present wrapped tightly. And once it broke through, it was absolutely beaming, each tooth seeming to smile itself, both eyes blinding in their joy.

Smiles that most often came from the screech of a little girl or boy. One of his great grandchildren – kids that naturally gravitated toward him despite their shyness, despite their need to stay latched to mommy.

That’s what always amazed me. Sierra was a different child around Burt. During her most shy days, she would gather up the courage to muster toward Burt, melting immediately into his arms, grasping as his glasses and gazing into those smiling eyes. The bond was evident. Though both probably never thought about, they were part of something special. Something legendary; a relationship spanning four generations.

I can’t attest to much more than what I know – that Burt was a brilliant, soft hearted man who had lived a long and illustrious life. Sprightly. Animated. Filled with vigor even as the years caught up with him. Always ready with a sly smile, always ready with a grandfatherly concern.

But I can attest to something special I witnessed in the past year and a half: a relationship so unique and rare that most don’t get to experience it. The relationship between a great grandfather and great granddaughter.

Every person hopes to live long enough to see just one of his or her great grandchildren. Burt was lucky enough to have six.

And Sierra was lucky enough to be one of them.

Sierra and Great Grandpa Burt

“When you look up at the sky at night, since I’ll be living on one of them, since I’ll be laughing on one of them, for you, it’ll be as if all the stars are laughing. You’ll have stars that can laugh!”

And he laughed again.

“And when you’re consoled (everyone is eventually consoled), you’ll be glad you’ve known me. You’ll always be my friend. You’ll feel like laughing with me. And you’ll open your windows sometimes just for the fun of it… And your friends will be amazed to see you laughing while you’re looking up at the sky. Then you’ll tell them, ‘Yes, it’s the stars. They always make me laugh!”

- The Little Prince, Antoine de Saint-Exupery

Tags: Grandpa Boyer, On..., Sierra |

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