Once upon a time, there was a woman who thought she wasn’t creative. She knew she used to be, when she was younger, but a lot of us were other things when we were younger, before sex and productivity and consumerism narrowed our focus.
The woman knew she had skills, she had logic. She could program a computer, troubleshoot a problem, follow a pattern or a recipe. But talent? No. And you need talent to be creative, right?
Then one day, because a colleague had a crush on a TV star, the woman found herself in a room with a writer. Not just a writer, a writing coach. Not just a writing coach, a woman of easy charm and smiling eyes, who through writing a few simple lists, showed the woman that she is creative. That a skill practiced enough can be a talent. And that the purpose of creativity is to not be perfect.
Over the years, the woman worked with the writing coach, delighting in the layers of herself she found underneath the responsible adult. She learned to scribble in the pristine journals, to start anywhere other than at the beginning, to finish before the end. She learned that sometimes close enough really is good enough. And more importantly, the she learned that the knowledge that the first efforts will be crap is the exact reason to make those first efforts rather than the reason to never start.
Wabi sabi, bitches.