Creating in Whispers and Shadow

My creative process has always been done in whispers, beneath the cover of the night, until the moment my creations were brave enough to stand on their own two still-a-bit wobbly legs. Hushed but enduring; done while I was home alone, which I made sure happened often. 

I lived alone for five years, so this was—almost—no problem. Apartment living meant I still kept my voice down so my neighbors wouldn't hear, but nevertheless, I persevered whisper-strong. 

A year ago, I had to make some changes. I moved in with my boyfriend—so in love we spent every waking (and sleeping) moment together we could, and showed no signs of stopping. I no longer had infinite alone-time to be creative; sure, I could still whisper, but one room over from a potential overhearer doesn't feel quite as safe as one whole apartment over—even if said overhearer is one you're madly in love with. 

I took this change in stride and set about to find a method of creative expression that would give me the amount of psychological safety I'd need. I had succeeded in finding this just-right spot in my comfort zone before, and I knew I could do it again.  

Thus, I began writing. If talking aloud was no longer viable—rambling in YouTube and TikTok videos to untangle and articulate my thoughts about the world—I'd embrace the silence and work within it. 

I also pushed myself bit by bit to expand my capacity for out-of-the-darkness, collaborative creation. I knew my shadowy shame was holding me back; I was able to still create in spite of it, but if I really wanted to unlock my creative potential, I'd have to work to let go of as much of it as I could. To whatever degree felt tolerable, I invited my lover in on my creative process. 

Thanks to my persistence, I tackled my first long-form project. I had even shared the idea with my boyfriend brainstorm-early, before I had it fully together—though I did wait until I had a full-blown idea, not just a little scrap. I asked for his input. I didn't let my embarrassment or doubt prevent me from following through. And within four months I had finished it, presenting it to him immediately for his thoughts and suggested edits. 

A ruthless and steadfast editor he was—I cried, in a good way. It was exactly the sort of editing I would have wished for, if I knew I'd someday end up writing. It was the kind of feedback I would myself give to a loved one who had written something they cared deeply about sharing with the world—shearing superfluous fluff; applaud-highlighting noteworthy articulations; turning each word, sentence, and chapter around in the sun to see it shine just right. 

I wept through my gratefulness for myself, too: that I had decided to be brave. He made my writing so much better than it would have ever been without him. 

A year or two prior, I would have answered editing suggestions with red-faced regret and not-quite-sure defensiveness. This time, I faced the blinding rays with my shoulders squared—rewriting entire sections for clarity, accepting suggested sentence-tailoring after suggested sentence-tailoring, and rejecting any that went too far. Another win—I didn't let the feedback turn my work something else—only more of what I had wanted it to be. 

I write this blogpost now on a giant, gently lilting ferry, the waves crashing lazily and silently below as my boyfriend sleeps lightly on my shoulder. I'm tapping diligently away, but only after several minutes spent blank-screen-staring, gathering the courage to start—what if he opens his eyes before my draft-hazy words are fit to be seen?

But I did start. I lowered the screen brightness dark enough to feel safe. I scrapped my initial topic idea that would have felt a tad too ambitious to attempt with a pair of might-open eyes so close beside me. 

I crawl my way to the light once again—still quiet, but ever-increasingly glimmering and sun-spattered.

My view from the ferry. Adding this photo post-publish: I hadn't noticed the setting sun shining on my screen until immediately after hitting publish. Beautifully apt.