Show Up-No Matter What:12/24

From the journal December 2024:

After reading my last post, anger swirled in the pit of my stomach, a visceral reaction to my own willingness to surrender to the suffocating grip of artist block, as if it were an inevitability, a dead end I had unwittingly stumbled upon. But there is no dead end, I realized today while stewing in the stillness of my studio, surrounded by the ghosts of unfinished canvases. What I’ve encountered is merely a new kind of resistance, a block birthed from the insatiable growth of my inner critic, that relentless specter who has morphed into a veritable tyrant. For five years, I’ve toiled as a full-time artist, honing my skills with the sweat of my brow, only to discover that my inner critic has sharpened her claws in tandem, becoming a vicious tormentor. She is a cruel mistress, indifferent to my tender feelings, hurling barbs meant to probe the depths of my sensitivity, eager to see how deep the wounds can go. She despises rest, revels in the frenzy of productivity, and regards indecision as the mark of a novice, a sign of weakness. But here’s the truth: it’s not hopelessness that coils around my heart; it’s the sharp, familiar sting of insecurity that she wields so expertly. Yet, amidst this cacophony of doubt, I’ve learned a powerful mantra: show up—no matter what. With every brushstroke, every word, I will confront her, reclaiming the space that is rightfully mine, battling the shadows of my own making, determined to weave art from the chaos of my spirit. Creativity must become just another chore on the endless list, like laundry, folded into the fabric of daily obligations? It strikes me that when we treat it as such, the act of creation slips into the rhythm of life with surprising ease; it takes far less time to do. Much of my longing for creative time is wrapped up in the notion that I must first coax myself into the right mood, waiting for that elusive spark, the divine whisper that says, "Now is the moment." We crave the feeling of inspiration, as if it were some rare, precious gem, and when it doesn't arrive promptly, we convince ourselves that the solution lies in more time, more space, more ritual.

But what if the answer is not in the ceremonial arrangements of perfect paper and the ideal noise level, or the precise pin that holds our dreams in place? By draping creativity in the robes of special occasion, I rob myself of the very time I seek. It becomes an elaborate performance rather than the simple act of breathing, a ritual that hinders rather than helps. I understand that creativity needs to be nonnegotiable, a daily practice that flows through my veins as naturally as blood. It should not be contingent on my mood or the judgment that lurks in the shadows, whispering doubts and fears.

I see now that what I seek is not the approval of some inner critic—the sensor that stands guard, arms crossed, waiting for the right moment to grant me permission to create—but the raw, gut-level knowledge that my creativity is both doable and portable. It can exist in any space, under any conditions, as long as I refuse to let those conditions dictate my worth. I must learn to weather the storms of my moods, to push through the fog on the days when inspiration feels like a distant star, no less real for its absence.

If I wait for the day when my inner sensor, that insatiable beast, deems me worthy, I may find myself in an eternal limbo, forever yearning for that green light that never comes. Instead, I must train this inner voice to step aside, to allow me the freedom to work without its incessant critique. I do not need to obliterate it; rather, I must learn to exist alongside it, to wade through its constant stream of negativity without drowning.

Blocks are a part of the artist's life, a reality as palpable as the paint on my palette—some days they are merely annoying, other times they loom like dark clouds, heavy with the promise of despair. No one is immune to them; those who claim otherwise are merely whistling in the dark, trying to drown out the truth. The trick lies in acceptance, in acknowledging the block's presence while forging ahead regardless. I must embrace the discomfort, the uncertainty, and work anyway, letting the act of creation become my rebellion against the chaos of self-doubt.

So here I am, standing resolute at the threshold of my own making, ready to disrupt the cycle of waiting and wishing. I will paint through the storms, scrawl words in the shadows, and carve out moments of creativity in the cracks of my day. I refuse to let my sensor dictate the terms of my artistry any longer. Instead, I make my creativity a daily ritual, a heartbeat in the midst of the noise, and in doing so, reclaim the creativity that is inherently mine.