How many of us write?
Or want to write?
Or plan to write, or hope, or—fill in the blank with any emotion-laden verb you choose.
Is there really anyone on the planet without the desire to practice art of some kind, whether writing or painting, gardening or photography? As ubiquitous as that desire is, it often rests in the land of Someday:
When I get around to it.
When I retire.
When my children are older.
And then there are those of us who do practice art of one kind or another, and struggle with completion, acceptance, publication, or any number of other sticky spots. And as we struggle, we challenge and castigate and denigrate ourselves. Flagellate, even.
Have you ever said any of these words to yourself?
“I just need to get my act together.”
“I know I should just do it!”
“Why is it taking me so long?”
As we focus on what we want to do, such as write and publish books for others to read, we often get fixated on where we want to be, and the obstacles that arise in our path are brushed aside like gnats, or else they become huge blockages that we can’t seem to get around.
But what if, by doing so, we are missing the greatest gift our creativity can give us? What if the point is not the art, but the journey to the art?