The conundrum of creatives and close relationships
A police detective once said to me: “Creativity isn’t well-distributed across the population.”
After thinking about it, I disagreed. I’ve spent time in places around the world and I’ve been amazed by the creativity of so many people, expressed in so many different ways. On the other hand, I have to give it to him that most people subordinate their creativity to their career, family, and everyday routines. They express their creativity by building playlists, finding an aesthetically pleasing way fold the sheets and pillowcases, or inventing a workaround to put together that easy-to-assemble, all-in-one home gym equipment.
If the occasional tapping of the creative spirit has any effect on close relationships at all, it probably supports their connections to others.But I want to consider the emotional attachments of “creatives,” people whose self-identity centers around their creative endeavors: artists, writers, dancers, musicians, photographers, designers, and others whose work spans the domains of “creative work.” Creatives don’t just think of their creativity as a pleasant adjunct to a socially conducive lifestyle. They live their creativity, day in day out. They dream it, night after night. They search the world for a color, shadow, line, word, phrase, note, or rhythm.
They seek work in their creative field, aiming for the recognition and reputation that will allow them to make a comfortable living doing what they love to do. If they can’t get work, they stay poor, giving up the comforts of home, heat, fashion, and fine dining. They live in a single room downtown (yeah, I did that) or a suburban studio (yep, did that too). They drive a beater. (I’m sure I’ve jump-started a car on every major boulevard in west Los Angeles.) They use their creativity to snag cool clothes from the thrift store. (Trust me, I am known for my super-cool unusual clothes).
If I sound like it’s just me, I know it’s not. I’ve seen these patterns among artists in downtown L.A., screenwriters in West Hollywood, musicians in Studio City, and graffiti artists in East L.A.
Close relationships are problematic for many people, not just creatives. But from what I’ve experienced and observed, living the creative life places its own difficult demands on a broad range of relationships. It’s hard for my extended family to deal with periods when I don’t communicate because I’m working day and night to meet a writing deadline. I don’t sleep well when I’m writing hard, so I’m exhausted. Hours go by as I wrestle the words to paper, pounding my keyboard, a pick-axe against the dense rock of meaning. Then I’m too wrung out to think about talking to anybody.
“I’m sorry I missed your birthday and the card is late.” “No, I can’t go to the museum Sunday, I need to finish a chapter ” “Oh, I’m sorry I forgot to pay that ticket in time. ”When I’m deep into a project, even when I’m there — I’m not there. My body is present, but my mind is probing, considering, comparing, noting. As one friend said to me: “When you’re around people, you observe them, describe them, write about them, record them on video and audio — but you’re not really with them.”
Of course, I was hurt, but there are times when these words are all too true. I will see a sister or a friend twist her hair as she thinks a problem through and immediately consider using that gesture to flesh out a character who I’m working on. I’ll look at a house and think, “Oh, yes, that might be where she grew up,” and ask my husband to pull over so I can grab a picture of it on my phone.
My husband and I have been married about ten years. We love each other. He loves it that I’m creative. Applied to Alaskan cod with sage and saffron sauce it’s fine, but he doesn’t love my creative work so much. It meant six years of writing a book. It means I might not want to cook on a given day, or that he’ll have to take over quite a bit of the household work because I need to write for a week or two.
My siblings grew up with me — they know I zone out of the Real World for stretches at a time and (mostly) forgive me. My husband sometimes grumbles, but he cares enough about me to deal with my physical isolation and inner focus. But they all get tired of it and a byline, book, or video doesn’t make up for it, even when I mention them in the acknowledgements.
I say to myself: “If I did other work, I’d be gone 10–12 hours a day. At least I’m home.” I try to compensate by being kind and generous when I’m rested or between projects.
But it’s a conundrum — a problem that has only makeshift, day-to-day solutions. And some days I disappoint and frustrate people.
Some days, I am disappointed and frustrated myself, so I’m a grump or a smartass, dismissing their needs and concerns.I know I am loved by my family and my husband. I know I love them, and they know it too. But I also know that my writing career is not always easy for them (or for me), and I regret that I disappoint and frustrate them. I live with that. No amount of writing, or even publishing, erases the awareness that I do not fully participate with my relationship partners, that I draw on them for support and inspiration and I don’t always pay them back in the same coin.
That’s why close relationships are a conundrum, a true dilemma. The answer is a continuous process of satisficing. Satisficing is a cross between “satisfy” and “suffice” or the balance between satisfaction and sufficiency. It’s the point where an action or decision is not completely satisfactory but it is sufficient to achieve an objective or maintain a desired condition.
It’s the best I can do. I long ago decided that I would write my whole life. I believe it is what I was born to do, and I have earned a modest living from it for many years. Honestly, I wouldn’t live my life any other way. If I did, I might be a really nice comfortable woman who meets a schedule and fixes lunches. Instead, I’m a writer.
The conundrum of creatives and close relationships was originally published in C.R.Y on Medium, where people are continuing the conversation by highlighting and responding to this story.
