I Hold My Projects Lightly

Experiencing the absence of creative desperation

The sun shines brightly on the fresh snow. It’s the end of November, weeks of rain, decaying leaves and darkness have passed. Weeks of showing up yawning at the office, of commenting on how early the sun sets now, of collective complaining about the unforgivable nature of November in Sweden.

Now the snow has come, and with it, the sun. I blink at it, bathe my eyes in brightness. The snow creaks lightly under my boots and I have a coffee from the local café cradled in my hand. I drink coffee now, apparently. I’ve realised that the darkness makes me less sensitive to caffeine, and so I can handle a cup of coffee now and then. The cold air and the heat from the mug blends under my fingers.

Pleasantly drifting

This is the first time in a long while with no real external commitments in my creative projects. No group coaching community to run. No promised content schedule. Nothing that needs marketing. No deadlines to keep.

It’s just me, my ideas, dreams and rainy November days.

I had intentions for autumn. To reflect about what makes a good creative life now, in this new phase. To explore new habits and rhythms. To take charge.

And I realise I have done less exploring and more experiencing.

I have let weeks unfold, allowed some of my weekends to be tired and unfocused, others be inspired and driven. I’ve forgotten about things, written down ideas I’ve never come back to, intended to do things and then not done them.

When November began, I thought it was an excellent idea to grab hold of the NaNoWriMo energy in my own modified way, and write 30 practice paragraphs in the style I want for my new book project. I started and then didn’t keep going, and then I restarted and realised that my practice paragraphs turned into scenes and I kept writing. And then I stopped again.

Throughout the month, I’ve found myself drifting along, letting the flow of my life carry me through the dark weeks. And I’ve felt that I should do something about it, that I shouldn’t let myself be this way, that it should frustrate me.

But what do you know, I’ve enjoyed it.

Unexpectedly fulfilled

An evening, a week ago or so. My fiancé poking around in the kitchen, me leaning on the counter.

“It’s weird, I feel creatively fulfilled by my job. Like I don’t need to create during the weekends to get that.”

Fiancé glanced at me.

“Don’t you dare complain about it”, he said.

I laughed. I wasn’t going to. I was simply marvelling at this curious state of things.

Earlier, when life and work had kept me busy, it had inevitably frustrated me. I would struggle to find time or energy to create, and felt like I was losing touch with a core part of myself. I would get stressed and feel my dreams and goals and ideas receding into the distance.

I tried to find that familiar sense of frustration, but it wasn’t there. A little pinch that I should have created more, that I should be frustrated, but no actual frustration.

Absence of desperation

This pleasant lightness around my projects is new. It makes me realise that there has been a rigidness around them for a very long time. A fear of losing, of not getting to where I wanted to get, of not showing up for my goals.

There has been a desperation to my creativity. That if I don’t do this, if I don’t create, I will lose myself. My dream, my livelihood, my identity. And so I’ve held myself firmly, steering and directing.

It’s different now.

I still want my own creative projects. I want to write that novel. I want to write this Substack. I want to take photos. And I want to do a myriad of other creative things - knitting socks and decorating my home and overanalysing changes in my style and putting stickers in my calendar.

All of that is still there, I just don’t feel the same urgency and desperation.

Past me would be scared that the lack of pressure would mean I wouldn’t create. She would apply control.

But current me trusts that I will create. Not all the time. More in some periods than others. But despite the lack of external commitments, despite the lack of control and desperation and fear, there is an internal drive to work on my own projects that doesn’t go away.

It’s just there, humming along, finding a way in and around and back.

Quiet contentment

I sip my coffee. It’s cooling quickly and I stop, open my backpack and take out my camera. Put my coffee in the snow on the ground, take some pictures. There’s always a naivety in the first fresh snow. An innocence that you know won’t last, a dazzling light in an otherwise dark time.

The sun is in my back as I steer towards the forest. I walk and stop and take photos and my fingers get numb and stiff as I fiddle with the camera settings and I pull on my mittens and blow warm air into them.

I take the long way home through the forest. Today is a good day. Not every day is good, not every situation easy or fun. But underneath runs a quiet contentment, a satisfaction with the shape of dark, rainy routine November days.

An idea for a Substack post simmers around in my mind. I visit the characters of my novel project briefly, let them slip away again.

I hold my projects, lightly.