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…