Teresa R. Funke's Blog: Bursts of Brilliance for a Creative Life, page 45

Are You Ready for an Adventure?

There’s a line in the movie The Hobbit: An Unexpected Journey that gives me such a thrill. As Bilbo Baggins rushes by—pack on his back, big feet flying—one of the villagers calls out, “Mr. Bilbo, where are you off to?”

“I’m going on an adventure,” Bilbo shouts back, as he hurtles headlong into an uncertain fate.

That line and image pop into my head often. I like to approach life as one grand adventure, but sometimes it’s not. Sometimes it’s tedious and routine and I find myself daydreaming about a more exotic existence.

I took some time off over the holidays and found that re-entry into my work life was much harder than I had expected. Why? I love my work. I’m excited about my projects and those of my clients. But after two weeks of living outside my basement office, I found it difficult to trudge down those stairs again and sit at the same old desk, facing the same old piles of unfinished work and an inbox full of e-mails.

It’s not that I want my work itself to change, but it’s getting a bit old rising at the same time each day, doing a few exercises, eating breakfast, and then working straight through until dinner time. Life is feeling a bit too routine lately.

Maybe this all has to do with watching my children move into new stages of life, which I mentioned last week. My son is graduating college and moving on to who knows what. My older daughter is moving out of the dorms into a more independent living situation. My youngest daughter is graduating high school and already knows what career she wants to pursue. Part of me is longing to make a big change too, to challenge myself in some grand new, even scary, way.  Another part of me wants to keep doing what I’m doing, but with more focus and attention.

Whether I decide to up and move to some new city for a while or just rearrange my office, a new year is stretching before me filled with infinite possibility. It is for you too. And whether the changes that are coming will be unexpected or determined by your choices and actions, the wheels are in motion. The adventure has just begun.

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Should I Take a Nap or Change the World?

For the first part of last year, I was working way too much. My friends told me to slow down, take more naps, spend more time outdoors, etc. So I did. I dropped some projects, stepped back from some roles, said no to some opportunities. And for the first few weeks, it felt great. I had time to read books again, and watch TV with my daughter, and have coffee with friends. I felt like maybe I’d returned to my true self . . .  until I didn’t feel that way.

In the last few weeks, I’ve started to feel antsy, and my productivity has suffered. Apparently, I need a certain amount of chaos and loads of deadlines in order to accomplish more. What’s that old adage? If you want something done, ask a busy person.

But I think a bigger question is at play here. Now that I’m entering a new phase (the empty nest era), I’m wondering if the time has come to kick back and enjoy life or do the opposite . . . shift things into high gear and do something big.

When I was a child and people asked me what I wanted to do when I grew up, I’d say, “I don’t know, but I know I want to help people. I want to make a difference.” I had this abiding certainty that I was put on this earth to do something great. People would say, “That’s cute, kid, but not everyone can be president.” They told me just being a good person was enough, and I think that’s mostly true. I think just in living a good life, we make a difference.

But what if those feelings I had as a child were not passing fancy?  What if they were real? What if I was put here to do something important, and I knew it the way kids know so many things that we dismiss? Is it arrogant to think it? And if I give myself permission to believe it, does that mean I’ll have to go back to being crazy busy all the time? Can I change the world without changing the life I love?

I have a friend who says, do what you want to do right now, always. If you want to gaze at the clouds, do it. If you want to change the world, do that. In other words, throw all the rules out the window, throw out all the judgments and self-criticism and analysis, and just do what your heart is calling you to do in that moment.

Maybe I do know why I’m here, I’ve just forgotten. Maybe if I stop trying so hard to figure it out, it will come to me, kind of like that song that is on the tip of your tongue, but you can’t remember it until you give up trying.  And it might come on a relaxing walk or in a focused meeting with a colleague. I’m not going to worry about that anymore. I’ve realized I don’t need to keep looking for my path. I’m already on it. I just need to trust where it leads.

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How to Have it All

New Year’s Eve is fast approaching, and the radio ads remind us to enjoy “all things in moderation.” But it’s not just this time of year that we hear that advice. To many people, that phrase sounds restrictive or even punitive. Not to me. It’s my personal motto. Has been for a long time.

You see, I don’t put the emphasis on the word moderation, I put it on the word all.  Chalk it up to my artistic, entrepreneurial temperament, but I do want it all. Don’t you? And I believe we can have it, though maybe not all at once.

I don’t like diets because they involve giving something up. I’d rather just eat a little less of everything!

I don’t like five-year plans for my business because they leave no room for the unexpected opportunity, and I don’t want to pass on anything.

I maintain a certain focus on bringing in money to pay the bills, but try not to overschedule so I can leave room for my art.

I work extremely hard most of the time, but in the evening, I kick my feet up for at least an hour before bed.

If it sounds like I’m talking about balance, I suppose I kind of am, although I struggle constantly with that concept. If I concentrate too much on the word “balance,” I start to panic. I worry that I’m working too much or not enough. I fret that I’m not spending enough time with friends and family or that I’m goofing off too much. I worry that I’m prioritizing one aspect of my business over another. Trying to lead a “balanced life” stresses me out.

Instead, I try to focus on having it all.  This New Year’s Eve, I’ll eat light early in the day, but in the evening, you’ll find me indulging in appetizers and holding a glass of champagne. I won’t be thinking back on the past year, because it’s done and over. I won’t be looking too far into the future, because the adventure is now.

“Having it all” isn’t a goal or a resolution, and it’s certainly not a pipe dream, it’s a choice. Choose life!

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Why We Love the Classics

“A classic is a book that has never finished saying what it has to say.” I found that quote by Italo Calvino on Goodreads the other day, and it struck me that at no other time of the year is that saying more true. The holiday season brings us so many beloved classics in all art forms, and though we’ve seen or read or heard them dozens of times, we never grow weary.

Paintings by Currier and Ives or Norman Rockwell take us back to times of perceived innocence. The Nutcracker ballet does something similar in celebrating the vibrancy of childish dreams. The classic film, It’s a Wonderful Life, demonstrates that every person matters. Charles Dickens’ story, A Christmas Carol, cautions us to live life with goodness and generosity. So does my personal favorite, How the Grinch Stole Christmas. These are all themes that never grow old.

That’s why some radio stations play only Christmas music for weeks before the holiday. Christmas songs invoke peace, faith, love, kindness, family, and fun. As we close out the year, we long to reconnect with the things that really matter, and Christmas carols do that better than anything.

It’s every artist’s dream to create a classic, to imagine that our work will outlive us and never stop inspiring. Some of us will achieve that, others will delight friends and family with homemade Christmas cards, hand-knitted sweaters, clever holiday letters, or a special recording of a favorite Hanukkah song. We’ll display our art through carefully decorated Christmas cookies or beautiful light displays on our houses.  No matter how busy we get, the holidays will always bring out the best of our creative selves.

For the world or just for our families, we artists will create new traditions, new classics. As the incomparable Johnny Mathis once said in song, “These wonderful things are the things we remember all through our lives.”

So don’t hold back.  Share some of your favorite holiday memories and create some new ones too.

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The Force is With Artists, Always

How can I not comment on the upcoming release of the new Star Wars movie? I’m not a fanatic, nor do I plan to brave the crowds on opening night, assuming any tickets remain unclaimed. But from the years 1980–1983, a significant part of my heart and mind resided in the Star Wars universe. Why? Because I was obsessed with finding out what had happened to the love of my life, Han Solo.

The bulletin board in my room was covered with pictures of Harrison Ford and the rest of the Star Wars cast. I devoured Star Wars books, bought fan magazines, and stayed up past my bedtime to watch the stars appear on late-night shows.  My slumber party trick was doing a live performance of the scene in the Millennium Falcon (shown above) in which Han insists that Leia cares for him. I played both parts. My friends would clap and beg me to do it again. I’m not kidding.

I was nine, almost ten, when Star Wars came out. My brother was seven. My mom broke her “no rated-PG movies” rule and let my Dad take us to see it. The line stretched out and around the theater.  I watched that entire movie without blinking and, much of the time, holding my breath. After that, our house was full of Star Wars action figures and fake light sabers and all manner of Star Wars merchandise, owned mostly by my brother.

There was a theater near my home, and for months after the release of the first movie, back in 1977, every weekend night, the line extended down the block.  Star Wars wasn’t a movie, it was a phenomena. It awakened the imagination of even the most incredulous old soul. Its energy was infectious. To sit in a darkened theater with people who were laughing, booing, and jumping in their seats made it all seem so real.

Now we, the most ardent Star Wars fans, are middle-aged, yet we are still posting on Facebook our excitement about the new film. And our children are doing the same.  I’ve said it before, I’ll say it again . . . art brings us together in ways nothing else can.

So do yourself a favor — if you ever loved these movies, don’t sit in your living room and watch this new one alone. See it in a theater, shoulder to shoulder with a total stranger who, like you, wants for just a couple of hours to believe again in magic.

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Does Your Art Pass the Relevancy Test?

Yesterday, I was reading Jon Morrow’s blog post on the seven tests every blog must pass in order to grow and thrive. He argued that if the blog missed the mark in even one of those areas, it was doomed to fail. I bit my knuckle and read the rest of the article. Fortunately, my blog squeaked by on all seven tests.

It was scary to think that if the blog didn’t exactly match what people are looking for, it might never work. Jon talked about good blogs he has tried to help promote that just never took off.  The hard, cold truth, according to him, is that some people may have to give up on a blog, even if they love it.

Which got me thinking about all of the art we produce. How often do we, as artists, insist on creating work for which there is no real market because we feel there should be? I talk to writers all the time, for example, who tell me a premise for a book that I know will never sell. When I try to point that out, they say, “Well, I don’t care. This is what I want to write.”  And if it’s true — if they truly don’t care if it sells or not — I tell them to go for it. But half the time, they don’t really mean that. What they mean is that they know I’m right, but they hope I’m wrong. They hope something miraculous will happen and the book will take off anyway.

I see this attitude in all of my artist friends (and even in myself) when they hold on to old ways of doing things because they can’t accept that those days are over.  Or when they declare loudly and strongly that even though people don’t care about that type of art right now, they should, as if they can somehow make people care. I see it when they take the idealistic approach and say things like, “I’m just going to think positive thoughts and visualize strong sales and trust that people will find me.” I see it when artists focus on effective gimmicks to get people to buy, which works at first, but never lasts, and usually doesn’t result in the kinds of reviews or endorsements that can carry the art further.

This is perhaps the hardest conversation we can have with ourselves about our art. Am I producing this piece just for me? Is it all about what I want? Or am I producing it for my audience, because it is what they want and need?  That is not to say we should “sell out” as artists and just try to follow the trends. We should absolutely produce some work because we want to or because we feel it’s important. But when it comes to running our businesses, we need to think like business owners and make sure we are also giving our customers what is relevant to them.

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Black Friday Deal for Aspiring Writers

I’m straying a bit from my usual posts this week because I know you are all in shopping mode and I’m excited to share a deal regarding my new ten-part course, “How To Write Your First Novel.”

This course is available through my partner, Curious.com, which is the best online learning center in the world (in my opinion). Curious members pay a very small monthly or yearly fee to access video courses from qualified teachers on everything from finances to cooking, do-it-yourself projects to fitness, and, of course, anything related to the arts. If you click here, you will automatically get a 20% discount. Consider this a great gift for any of the aspiring writers on your list.

Have a great shopping day!  As for me, I’m going to start working on my famous holiday letter!

P.S. Yes, that is my typewriter. It belonged to my neighbor, who used it in the 1930s. It was given to me after her death, and it’s one of my most treasured belongings.

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Just Another Grateful Day

“It’s not happy people who are thankful, it’s thankful people who are happy.” I found this quote on the internet the other day. A friend encouraged me to start a regular gratitude practice, and since I have, I’ve noticed that no matter how foul my mood, my gratitude practice lifts it every time. I tick off 25 things I’m most grateful for that day. And as I’m listing them, I feel layers of weights lift off my shoulders.

So today, if I were to focus my gratitude practice on my art, it would start out like this:

I’m grateful for the opportunity to pursue my writing in all its forms.


I’m grateful for my writer’s group, which taught me most of what I know about good writing.


I’m thankful for that grumpy newspaper editor who took a chance on a history major who had never written an article before.


I’m thankful for my first mentor, Susan Stacy, for whom I worked as a research assistant at PBS. She built up my confidence and convinced me I was going places.


I’m grateful for my fifth-grade teacher who didn’t believe I’d written that poem because, “No fifth-grade student could write a poem this good.”


I’m grateful for my mother, who told me time and again she believed I would be a writer someday.


I’m thankful for my father for instilling in me a love of good literature.


I’m grateful for my three kids who used to read with me every night and edited my books to make them better.


I’m grateful for my writer’s coaching clients, who teach me, inspire me, and remind me why I love helping writers achieve their dreams.


I’m grateful for William Shakespeare, Mark Twain, Bill Bryson, Frank McCourt, Charles Dickens, Neil Simon, Maya Angelou, J.K. Rowling, Jane Austen, and so many other writers who taught me to appreciate that each writer has special gifts and a unique voice.


I’m grateful for school kids who tell me “I thought history was boring before you came to visit” or “I thought I was a bad writer before I met you.”


I’m grateful for all the reporters, bloggers, podcasters, and radio hosts who have invited me to share my stories about being a writer and asked questions that challenged me.


I’m grateful for computers, because pecking away on an electric typewriter is hard when you’re not a good typist.


I’m grateful for my husband who is my best friend, soul mate, champion, and patron of my art.


I’m most grateful for the men and women of the World War II generation who have shared their stories with me and given my writing purpose.


I’m also grateful in advance for whatever is coming next in this crazy, glorious writing journey. May it never stay the same!
And, of course, I’m thankful for you, dear reader. Have a happy and safe Thanksgiving!

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Call Me Artist

My husband was recently asked by his boss to retake the Myers-Briggs test. His result was ISFP, also known as “The Artist.” When he saw the word artist and read the description, it shocked him. He figured he must have done something wrong, so he had me watch as he retook the test. I did, even offering a little input, and his result was the same. He was no less unsettled the second time.

See, my husband views himself as practical, logical, and analytical. He has worked for the same Fortune 50 Company for almost 30 years. His main goal for his career was to have an 8-5 job with a wage that would allow him to provide well for his family, and he has achieved that. Never in a million years would he have described himself as an artist. That was my territory.

Yet my husband is a master woodworker. He builds incredibly beautiful furniture, shelves, and cabinets. He can also see a picture of a three-tier snowman cake in a recipe book and figure out how to make it. When the kids wanted some crazy costume made for Halloween, he was the one they went to. He is now crafting unique and beautiful ukuleles out of woods I didn’t know existed. The only difference between my husband and me is that, years ago, I decided to call myself an artist, and he never has.

So last week we took one of his ukuleles to a mountain town to see if one of the galleries there would sell it. My husband, who has overseen multi-million dollar budgets, managed teams of more than a dozen people, and spoken before high-level executives, suddenly looked nervous, and I get that. Putting our art out there is one of the biggest risks we can take. It’s a special kind of vulnerability. It takes guts to be an artist. And it takes guts to admit we are artists.

I remember the day someone asked me “So what do you do for a living?” and instead of answering, “I’m a stay-at-home mom,” like I usually did, I took a deep breath and said, “I’m a writer.” From that moment on, I owned it in a way I never had before. So if you haven’t proclaimed it in your own life yet, do it now. Say, “I’m an artist.”  It doesn’t mean you have to quit your job or make a drastic change, it just means you are opening the door to exploring a fuller version of your self.

The second gallery owner we approached took my husband’s ukulele on consignment. We’ll see how long it takes to sell. He’s already at work on another one. My garage is covered in sawdust, but my husband is happy. And that is why we pursue our art.

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The Lost Generation Found

I recently returned from a trip to Paris with a friend. We went on a literary walking tour in which our guide showed us the pubs and bistros where some of the most famous writers of the early 20th century gathered to write, debate, drink, celebrate, and argue. Writers like Ernest Hemingway, James Joyce, Ezra Pound, Gertrude Stein, F. Scott Fitzgerald, and more, who were referred to as The Lost Generation. And at the center of their circle sat Sylvia Beach, owner of Shakespeare and Company bookstore and their staunchest supporter.

Like most people, I’ve always romanticized the image of all those geniuses gathered together, but really, these people, for all their talents, were pretty flawed individuals. I’m not even sure I would have wanted to count some of them as friends. In many ways, they were more interesting than the characters they created.

When I was young, I thought that to truly make it in the writing world, I’d need to move to New York City. And I accepted that if I wasn’t willing or able to do so (which I wasn’t) I would probably never be famous. I still fantasize about living in New York for a while. I think most artists do.

But for every writer or actor or dancer or singer or artist who has moved to New York and made it big, there are thousands who do not. And for every one hundred artists who live and work in their hometowns, there are a handful who make it big without leaving their state.

In truth, genius can thrive anywhere, and talent will attract talent. I live along the Front Range of Colorado, and we have a higher than average population of artists of all types in this area. Why? What draws us all here?

A friend of mine once hypothesized that artists are attracted to the same places once considered “holy” by the indigenous populations. Is that it? Is there an aura of something bigger that lingers in these places? Or are the rich landscapes just that inspiring?

I’m not sure how we artists find each other, but we do. And it doesn’t just happen in Paris or New York. We are surrounded by more talent than we realize, we just have to seek it out. And together, we grow stronger and better and braver. We find our Sylvia Beach’s, the people who love and support our work.

“Live the full life of the mind, exhilarated by new ideas, intoxicated by the romance of the unusual,” Hemingway once said. And here’s the beauty of that quote, we can follow his advice anywhere.

 

 

 

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