I grew up going to a summer camp that focuses much of its
daily energy on the character development and leadership skills of its campers.
This camp taught me not only to climb trees, shoot guns, and right a capsized
boat but also to overcome even the most grueling challenges—physical, mental,
and emotional. For as much as my time as both a camper and a counselor shaped
who I have grown to be, bulking up my weaker muscles and ironing out the
messier wrinkles, over time there is one such lesson that has had a more
profound effect on my professional life than I ever expected.
That is the lesson on creativity.
There are two kinds of people in my family: those who go to
museums and those who meet at the café afterward. While my grandparents, my
mom, my aunt, and my brother innately understand traditional art, my dad and I
just don’t get it. We’re math people. Logic people. Football people. We say,
“Have a nice time. We’ll wait in the car.”
So, naturally, I grew up understanding that I was just not a
creative person. I off loaded all creative responsibilities to my more creative
friends and family members, even having my mother create a gift for a friend in
my place because I knew I wasn't creative enough to accomplish it. I told
myself I was acknowledging my own limitations and seeking solutions from those
with the talents I needed. This kind of attitude was golden in job interviews,
and, I believe, landed me my first, and favorite, job.
I realized my lack of creative talent was a problem on my
second day. As part of my on-boarding to the publishing house I had recently
joined, I was to attend a brainstorming meeting in which we would create new
titles for the books we published. I
distinctly remember the thoughts that followed me from my desk to that conference
room. Uh oh. I’m not creative. This is
not going to go well, and I’ll probably get fired. By the time I sat down,
my brain came to my defense by acknowledging that it was my first time, and I
could probably get by with “just observing for now.”
But after months and months of listening to so many good
ideas and hearing my own measly ideas shot down on the few occasions I spoke
up, I grew increasingly fearful.
What if I’m not
creative enough for this job?
What if they notice?
Surely they've already
noticed.
I’m such a fraud.
Of all the ways college tries to prepare you for the real
world, it was camp that had prepared me for this kind of battle. Self-esteem is
hard to come by in a text book, but out in the woods you learn how to pick
yourself back up, keep you head held high, and remind yourself of the reason
you are not a fraud and happen to be
doing okay. Not great, I conceded,—but okay. After all, they hadn't fired me
yet.
It was during the losing third quarter of this mental game
that I made a pilgrimage back to camp to visit for a night and attend a Sunday
evening council fire—where campers are recognized for their achievements and
receive a sermon-esc lesson discussing a chosen quality that they are to practice
in the coming week. That night, we learned about creativity.
Creativity, apparently, was a quality that everyone could
express. As I began to hear myself chant those familiar words—I’m not creative—in the back of my head,
I asked myself to be quiet for a moment and listen to the speaker. She spoke of
our God-given ability to be creative and that each of us had the intelligence
and the skill to create ideas. And this
is where I interrupt this story to make a very important point. You see,
she did not say create “good” ideas. Or create “award-winning” ideas. Or create
“client-approving, you-get-a-raise-for-your-brilliance” ideas. There was no
adjective between the verb and noun. Only the space it takes to get from the
end of one word to the beginning of the next. And that’s when my perspective on
creativity shifted so suddenly, so profoundly, that I attribute my entire
professional success to that very small space between “create” and “ideas.”
You see, she took me back to the denotation of the word
“create.” She stripped it of its cultural connotations about positive adjective
associations. Of its inherent talent to socialize with only the artistic few.
Of its fleeting and mostly disappointing presence in my life. This is when I
remembered that before it conjured images of Van Gogh and modern dance, it
fueled Henry Ford’s assembly line. The art of creating has been ongoing for
centuries—millenniums—since the beginning of time, really. Whether through
divine forces or scientific bangs, creation just happens. It does not require adjectives
of color, line, form, or praise. It is a verb void of prerequisites.
It denotes, in it’s most natural form, the creation not of
only good ideas, but ideas.
Suddenly the sound of creativity did not include only colorful
birds chirping during an afternoon of painting in a whimsical garden of poetry
and genius. Now, it even sounded like wheels, grinding along a conveyor belt
with nuts and bolts, churning out materials in a sweltering factory. It sounded
like number two pencils scrawling digits across an evenly-lined notepad. Like
the sizzle of oil in a pan while a chicken fried itself into dinner.
I returned my thoughts back to that sermon, and felt a fire ignite
in my chest. Suddenly, I was creative. I looked around and noticed creativity
in everything. I created thoughts with my mind. I created dinner with the food
in my pantry. I created jokes during conversations. I created plot twists for
my authors. Dare I say I had been
creative this whole time?
I decided then and there that I would no longer dismiss my
ability to be creative—seeing it as a natural talent that my mathematical-side
of the family had left me lacking—but would embrace it even in it’s smallest
presence in my life. Yes, I would now practice it as if it were a skill to
master—like calculus.
It’s been three years since this revelation and in that time
I've spent many more days walking from my desk to a conference room to
brainstorm with my coworkers. But now, the thoughts that carry me down the hall
include, Let’s see what we can come up
with. Let’s generate at least 3 (adjective-less)
ideas in the course of this session. Let’s keep practicing creativity.
Every now and then, the younger version of me will groan at the thought of having
to interrupt my busy day for another brainstorming session and that old,
familiar—though quieter—chant will begin, I’m
not creative. But now, in its wake the older me pipes up, dismissing my
past self, giggling at the notion that I could even have the choice to not be
creative. After all, even the thought “I’m not creative” had to be created.
I find myself now enjoying creativity more than I ever
thought I would. I hear people describe my writing career as “so creative” even
though I've always thought of it like math with words. I've found myself sought
out for brainstorming sessions due to my creativity. I even take on projects that require “someone
creative” because I know that that person is me, and I look forward to the
opportunity to challenge myself into earning the adjective “good” in front of
my ideas.
It takes only one thought, only one shift, that tiny space
between one word and the next to turn the impossible into the possible. To sit
on a log bench and hear your biggest weakness described not as a talent you
cannot attain, but instead as a definition you’re already defining. To find
yourself lost in a career that requires creativity far beyond your talents and
to realize that you can and will master it as a skill. Because despite your own
objections, creativity is just a word with a definition—needing no adjective to
exist.
