Metaphors yea yea

I was thinking about the birthing metaphor I hinted at in the last post and was reminded of a creative director I once heard speaking on the dangers of this profession. He claimed that, more often then not, most creatives fall into the trap of either alcoholism, depression, or another addiction at some point in their career. And he accredited most of these occurrences to the stress that follows after the completion of a creative project, in what he called the “Postpartum disorder” of the creative process.

As a writer and creative, the metaphor of postpartum disorder is somewhat beautiful and accurate to me (as most metaphors are). I love the image of this creative idea growing in your belly, and for just a little while, no one else knowing. An intimate first trimester, mother and child. Then you tell your mom. A few friends. And soon its appetite mimics your own and your blood swims through its veins. Yet despite your best descriptions, no one understands, no one knows this thing like you do. Growing from simple thought to squooshy blob and always needing you—Its nurturer. Then later, when everyone can tell, they smile and touch your belly and ask you questions about the due date and what you will call it if it’s a girl. But you’re not really ready for their germy hands to have this. It will be perfect and it will be a doctor and it will make grandchildren. Just leave us alone until it's time.

Fourteen hours later, sweat-drenched and medicated, you hold it. Yet precious and tangible as it may be, even with the faint resemblance of your nose and crooked ears, it’s no longer really yours. It’s an entity. No longer inside of you, now a being to be sent out into the world. To be relished and adored. To be compared to and judged. To be loved unconditionally by some (usually your family members) and stood up on dates by others. Picked on in seventh grade for its small boobs. And in the end, you will always love this little project. You will feel pride in its every achievement and hurt for its every letdown. But you will always ache for the time when it was just mother and idea. Its blood pumping in sync with yours, consuming your conscious and unconscious thought, awakening you in the night with each developing kick.

So yes, I do acknowledge the reality of depression swooping into my life as a creative personality; yet I much more fear a life were I couldn’t be creative at all. I guess my only option to balance this threat of “postpartum disorder" is to strive for opportunities to always be glowing and pregnant with ideas--advertising or not. And to never cradle one finished project too long. And also to remember that you’re not really supposed to drink when you’re pregnant…

There's dreamers and there's baby killers.

So I've been having some dreams about dead babies. And it pretty much goes like this: when you have one dream about a dead baby, you (universally) think, oh those tacos were a bad idea. Then, when a different dead baby visits you in the night, you probably think, well, that's a little weird. But on the third day, when the Mary's roll back the tomb of your subconscious thought, and there lies the body of another dead baby--something is up.

The thing is, I have been known to rebuke those who attempt to tell me their dreams, because generally I like to spend my time discussing things that actually happened. So bear with me for one hypocritical moment. Before I go on, I just need to paint a clear picture of these mutilated baby nightmares.

Here's the first and most vivid: It's the late 1800's, and I'm a nanny on the prairie. I go into town to fetch some groceries from the market. Suddenly I realize I've left the baby on the changing table back at the cabin. So I casually try to persuade someone around me to give me a ride, not wanting to confess the need for my urgency. No one will help. Finally, my dad rallies the rest of my extended family into his Ford Model T (This dream is not historically sound. do not wiki this information) But instead of taking me straight home, my dad decides to take the scenic country route. At this point, I break down. Crying, I tell them what I've done. My uncle laughs, "That baby's not on the changing table. It's been here in this cooler all along!" A red modern day tail-gating cooler appears. I open it, and there lies a tightly-packed suffocated baby. The end.

The other two are different with pretty much the same ending.

At first I thought, not only has my biological clock been ticking, it's now telling me the jig is up. I've missed the train. The only babies I'll ever hold are the ones in my dreams--out of coolers. But I quickly chose to reject this thought, as I have VERY many things to do before babies. Live ones.

So with a bit more introspection, I've decided these dreams are simply a manifestation of my recent writer's block. It seems a very appropriate metaphor that each creative idea I labor out is much like a child. And as writer's block tends to come along with a healthy dosage of self-loathing, I often kill my ideas before they are even born. The lesson I choose to take from this (because I'm seven and still enjoy taking morals from the story) is that if I don't start being a cheerleader for my own work and trusting myself as a writer, I'm just going to keep killing my babies, never knowing their potential. suffocating them in red coolers before CPR was even invented.

In the beginning

This is a book coming out that creates an entirely new genre of creative non-fiction: the six word memoirs. Like the postsecret phenomenon, it I think it generates the same anonymous intimacy between readers and writers, as though someone else has written your memoir for you. It becomes hard to even focus on the video, as you wonder what your own six words would be.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=mBnP0DoGjRI

So, as an appropriate beginning to this blog, here are a few of my own six word memoirs. I guess it defeats the purpose to have more than one, but I had trouble narrowing it down. bite me.

I still call my mom everyday.

I'm fatter than I had pictured.

I haven't known love like that.

The best part was so real.

meaningless. a toiling under the sun.

Clueless isn't so bad after all.

They all heard me sing pretty.

wam bam. Thank you ma'am. amen.

I really grew into that nose.

Homesick for childhood. or something.

Drank wine and watched the fireworks.

Hellohi

So I'm not positive the purpose of these rantings. But mainly I think they're for me. To remind myself I know some words and that writing is an acceptable and appropriate chosen profession for me. Maybe it will remind some future employers too.

Moral of the story, I'm not positive what I'm doing. but we'll figure it out together. me and you. it'll be precious. or something.