Creativity Noodling

I love art walks, and I really enjoyed seeing some totally interesting art yesterday in Carlsbad. There was such a wide variety of artistic expression, from traditional oil paintings of scenery to sculpted vases with tentacles that appeared to be dredged from a pirate's chest to pictures of leopard faces from dyed dried grasses broken into tiny pieces. There was glass art, including jewelry, 3D collages, and loads of depictions of the beach/ocean/waves in various media. It was all so amazing! 

My own creative impulses careen from one extreme to the other when I confront all this excellence. On the one hand, I want to paint, paint, paint. I am filled with a longing to express myself with wild colors and swirling lines. I want to paint the crashing sea, vibrant sunflowers, a Halloween cat, a wolf howling at the moon. I want to dot paint on the canvas and have it turn into a lush garden party or a pond full of lilies. In my mind, I envision spectacular results. But I am also aware of the reality that I am no good at it. It's OK to paint just for fun, I tell myself, and every once in a while a piece turns out nice enough that I stick it up on my bedroom wall, but mostly my paintings suck. I don't have the patience to toil away at the craft for decades to develop a technique and all that; I'm in my 60s! Irrationally, I imagine that a couple hours of dabbling on a Saturday afternoon turns into a masterpiece. Ridiculous, of course. So, I get depressed and don't paint again for a long time. 

The same goes for writing. I am willing to put in the time ~ and I have ~ but my results are not quite what I had imagined. I have an idea, I flesh it out, and it turns into something, but the something never feels as profound as I thought it would. SSC: everything I have written, even the romance, was intended to be meaningful and deliver an important message. The results have fallen short though; the message is too subtle. In general, I am happier with my poetry than with other forms of creativity. While I know my paintings and novels are meh, I have the absurd conviction that some of my poems are really good. Is that arrogant? LOL. Maybe. 

Sometimes I think I tell myself my writing sucks because I'm lazy and no longer feel like putting in the effort, so I am giving myself an "out" by saying why bother when it's no good. Other times I think, no, I really am not that good (except at poetry). If I were good, my writing would have sold more when I was trying to market it. Someone would have discovered me and sent my books viral. Of course, there could be loads of great writing moldering away in the dark corners of KDP without anyone noticing it. How do we know the Great American Novel isn't tucked away on a dusty Amazon shelf just waiting for recognition? We don't/can't know that.