Creativity can come in fits and starts, bursts, deluges, or . . . not.
Sometimes, we’re empty. There’s nothing pressing we’re trying to say, no epiphanies to share, no questions to pose . . . Things are good and quiet and peaceful, and we’re doing what we do, and that’s that.
When I would have a “dry spell” back in the furious touring guitar-slinger-songwriter days, it would Freak. Me. Out. I would be miserable, worried, unbearably antsy and angsty, roiling with pent-up frustration and – oh yes – fear. Fear that it was Over. I was Washed Up. Done. My songwriting days were finis, kaput, fade to black, get outa town.
I knew that in order to continue to create, to have output, you have to have input, and you have to have periods of rest – to let the fields like fallow for a time so they can recover their nutrients for the next season. It just never occurred to me that that stuff applied to my own personal process. Why should it? I was a tough cookie, I could keep going like the Energizer bunny and never needed any time off. I had tons of baggage to pilfer for song ideas, so much longing and discontent, so much wrongness going on in my life, dear lord. I was a songwriter’s motherlode. And I wrote so many songs . . . I wrote songs I don’t even remember. (In fact, I made whole records I don’t even remember. I was in a coffeehouse one evening, chatting with a bunch of folks; every once in a while my ears would catch a phrase of guitar music from the speakers, and I would think, Woah, that is bad-ass, yet so pretty. And familiar, I swear I have heard this before but I can’t place it. Finally, I approached the manager and said, “Tom, what are you playing? I can’t place it, but I know I’ve heard it before.” He looked at me like I’d asked him if aliens made the cookies, and said, “Uh, that’s you.” My turn to look at him like he just told me up was down. “What?” He held up the CD case, with my name on it, right there in great big letters. I burst out laughing, saying “Jesus, no wonder it sounded familiar!”)
Over the years, I have learned to cope with the fallow times better. The best medicine is usually to do something creative that is completely unrelated to music. For me, mostly, that’s sewing or knitting/crocheting. I call it “fiber therapy.” It flexes different creative muscles and allows me to do something to keep my head and hands just busy enough that blocks get worked through without me getting too torn up about them. In fact, I highly recommend this approach to anyone who asks me how to make it through the fallow time.
But lately, I’ve been taking a different approach yet.
I’ve been helping my good friend and the Director of the Family Folk Machine, Jean Littlejohn, to arrange songs that members of our songwriter’s group have written, to take them to a whole new level, and have them performed by a choir and a full band, with optional strings or horn section. Yeah, we’re doing that. It’s the bad-assest kind of bad-assery I can think of. Giving a songwriter the gift of having their song blown up into something huge and beautiful is like . . . nothing else.
I remember when a friend of mine took a liking to one of my songs, and took it to his band to arrange and record. They were a Latin jazz band, very very good. I was excited, and told them to do whatever they wanted. They ran with it. One day, my friend showed up and took me for a ride in his truck to listen to their recording. I was in awe, gobsmacked, speechless, and then the horn section kicked in and I was a sobbing mess of bliss and contentment. I think I said something like, “Okay, I can die happy now!”
To be able to offer that experience to other aspiring songwriters is like a holy calling. It’s amazing. I can’t even tell you how much fun we’re having. It’s one of the most rewarding things I have ever had the chance to do.
I stumbled into this, it wasn’t anything I ever imagined I’d have the chance to do. It found me. But I ran with it, and now we’re making pure magic happen.
Think about what you are best at, what you excel at, what lights you up and makes you feel whole. You can teach other people to do it. You can set up events, like coffeehouse nights, gallery shows, poetry readings, whatever – you can do it, and give gifted people a shot at being wildly appreciated while also giving them the kind of excitement and encouragement about what they are doing that leaves room for nothing but excellence. It’s magic. Maybe you’re not ready for that yet – maybe you’re still looking for the mentor that will help you get to that level – but just know, this is waiting for you. You can make this a part of your mastery plan.
There are myriad ways to court the Muses and rekindle the creative embers, but sometimes, it’s enough to let the field lie fallow so other creators can shine all the brighter.