The Benefits of Having Creative Friends

So here's the thing: I'm kind of a hermit. Not kind of--I'm a very big hermit. I spend a huge chunk of my time in my room. Not even Pokemon Go can save me, because the majority of the Pokemon I've caught have been from either the comfort of my own home, or from my workplace while on break. Part of this is because I'm an extremely antisocial individual, and would much rather interact with fictional people than real ones.

The other, larger part, though, is because I'm always trying to get some writing done. (Keyword: trying. If I spent all of my antisocial time actually writing, I'd have like ten novels published and a movie franchise in the works by now.)

Writing is hard for the same reason doing homework is hard--I get distracted very, very easily when I'm first starting. Once I get in the groove, I'm good to go--it's getting into the groove that's the hard part. This is why I never try to write around friends, family, or pretty much anyone else that I know; I'm me, so I'll start talking, and then I'll never, ever stop. (I'm sure there are several people who can vouch the validity of this statement.)

I've heard time and time again that it's good to find people you can work around--that is, people with whom you can be productive while in their company. I've yet to find such magical unicorns in terms of my writing because, as mentioned previously, I never stop talking. (Ever.) So when I need to get some writing done, or finish up my term paper, or cram for an exam, I need to separate myself from everybody in order to reach the level of productivity I want.

For whatever reason, though, I've recently discovered that I don't have nearly the same trouble with drawing. I've been drawing on and off for, oh, about seven years now. (You wouldn't know, because in recent years I stopped putting aside as much time to do it. But I digress.)

Here's the thing with drawing: I don't need to concentrate on it. I mean to an extent, I guess, I do--but the level of concentration required to draw a straight line is much, much lower than that needed to construct a paragraph. I can talk and laugh with the person sitting beside me. I can listen to music and sing along. I can leave Netflix on autoplay and draw to my heart's desire, while still binge watching whatever show I'm currently hooked on. The door can stay open, and my work won't suffer as a result.

In the last couple weeks, I've drawn more than I have in, like...a year and a half. I think this is mostly due to the influx of sudden creativity I've found myself surrounded by; whether it's my roommate on a painting binge, or the company of a long-time internet friend, they've suddenly inspired me to throw my head back into my sketchbook and put my rusty skills (or lack thereof) to use.

I eagerly await the day that I meet a good writing buddy, who will inspire me in similar ways and get me to shut up and work. Until then, though, I'll take what I can get.

Do you have a friend (or several) who you can be very productive with? Let me know in the comments!

Until later,

- Justyne

You Do You, Boo (A Discussion About Internal Motivation)

Last year, I did a small series of blog posts in which I discussed the variety of ways to motivate yourself externally. It was a nice little series. I enjoyed writing it. But what happens when all those frills stop working?

Remember....who....you are....

(Inserting gifs in here because it's 2016 and that's the Thing To Do.)

The most common advice I hear from anyone, in terms of work and career, is to do what you love. A no-brainer, right? It would seem so; hell, I preach that advice every day. But what happens when you don't even know what that means anymore? What happens when you sit down one day, doing The Thing You Love, only to start thinking that you maybe don't love it as much as you thought?

You have a freak out, for starters. You start to panic a bit. You start to question whether you're on the right path, whether this thing truly is The Thing You Love. Then you bury your troubles under hours and hours of Sims and try not to think about it.

(Not like I would know or anything....)

What makes something The Thing You Love? What magical quality does it posess that allows it to turn from just a hobby into...more? It's not an easy thing to pinpoint, really, because there's not just one way for it to get to that point. We all live different lives, we all choose to put our passion in different things for different reasons. There's no road map to figure out what The Thing You Love should really be. 

All you can really do...is do you. You do you, boo!

I don't know when I started saying this. Probably as a joke, to be honest--something to say indifferently, as a go-ahead to a suggestion, when the process doesn't affect the outcome, or the outcome doesn't affect me at all. "Go for it--you do you, Boo."

Then, last month, a friend of mine uploaded a post on her own blog, and made reference to this saying that I've suddenly adopted as my own. All at once, I realized that this saying wasn't really a joke at all--it had become advice. Real advice. Good advice, that I had never really thought to follow.

I started writing when I was around nine. It's been a part of my life for a very long time, and for all that time I never struggled with my future life plans. I wanted to do this, I was working hard for it, and I knew I was good. (Most of the time, anyway.) I always knew what I wanted to do...until suddenly, I didn't. (Y'all already know that story; it eventually lead to the creation of this blog.)

I joke about procrastination a lot. I've always done it, but over time it's gotten worse. Shouldn't this be easy? Shouldn't I have enough passion to push myself out of whatever rut I find myself in and just do it?

It wasn't that I didn't want to. I did. It's that I was lacking the energy, the time, the motivation. Every time I felt that rush, that flurry of words that poured out of me, I grabbed it desperately. I didn't want to let it go, to drift back into the void of other people's stories, all of which were starting to do nothing but remind me that mine wasn't out there.

But every time, I let go. I had to, because of responsibilities and commitments and a zillion other things that I wanted nothing to do with. I started to resent my job because of it, because I felt that every moment not spent towards The Thing I Loved was just a waste of time. I threw every creative project that wouldn't bring me a step closer to publication under the rug. 

Eventually, I threw The Thing I Loved under the rug, too. I didn't think I could do it anymore--every time I sat down to start, I got too distracted with other things. I got too frustrated with the fact that I wasn't anywhere near where I wanted to be at this point in my life--and I felt like a failure.

I stopped blogging because of it--for months.

Here's something that not everybody tells you: you're not always going to love The Thing You Love. You're not always going to love your dream job. No matter what it is, there are going to be days when you want absolutely nothing to do with it. There are going to be days when you want to do literally anything else, anything to avoid The Thing You Love. But that doesn't mean you just give it up--it doesn't mean that you've lost it, it doesn't mean that you need to throw in the towel and start looking for another way to occupy your time. That's why I wrote those initial posts, why I spent so long focusing on external motivators--because in dire times, they can save your ass. You need every ounce of inspiration you can muster.

But if you don't have the internal motivation to back it up, you're not going to get very far.

I don't know much, but this is what I do know: I love creating things. I love telling stories. I love pouring my heart and soul into something, and turning it into an experience for someone else. I love that. I always will, even sometimes I wish I could skip the hard part and skip straight to holding the finished product in my hands. The passion remains, through all the procrastination.

All you have to do is start. That's how you figure it out. You push past the hard bit, you grab hold of every ounce of motivation you can, and you use it to fuel the launch.

Because once you reach the stars, there's nothing holding you back.

You do you, guys.

- Justyne

When I Grow Up

When I was little--like six or seven--I wanted to be an artist. While that sounds very broad, I had a specific idea in my head. To seven-year-old me, being an artist meant drawing and making crafts. Do you remember the show Art Attack? Think of the guy who hosted that--he was my inspiration.

That idea was short-lived, though, because one day I came to the realization that I actually wasn't very good at art, period. Which, when you stop to think about it, is a very bleak thing for a seven-year-old to realize. Nevertheless, I gave up my childhood dream of being an artist, and decided that I would have to pick something else--which I did. A couple years later, I discovered my love of writing and storytelling, and the rest, as they say, is history.

Except it really isn't. At least, not the whole history.

Around the time I started high school, I started to re-develop my interest in visual arts. I took inspiration from Japanese comics and from video games and Disney movies. I filled up one sketchbook, then two, then three. I started developping comic concepts and ideas and, suddenly, all of my stories started to take on a visual form. Soon enough, my writing fell to the backburner as I dedicated my time to this new craft.

I didn't doubt my writing. Surprisingly, that's the one thing about my self that I've always been confident about. I just saw a new world that I had never properly explored, a new skill that needed practice and development. I saw a whole new world of stories that I could create and express better through pictures than I could through words alone.

I was still confident about my skills as a writer, sure, but what of my future? Could I do both? Could I write my novels, while creating comics at the same time? Could I make equal content on both sides, or would I have to choose? Already it was looking like I would--I was already struggling to juggle both of them.

And still, my eyes drifted. I noticed the up-and-coming YouTubers, with their vlogs and mini series and comedy sketches. My initial university searches had me looking at film programs, because God, wouldn't that be cool? I started seeing animation in a whole new light; I developed an appreciation for it, and admired people who taught themselves and learned the craft completely on their own.

All at once, I didn't just have one dream, one fantasy of being a novelist; I had dozens. I pictured myself at Disney's studios, slaving away at their next feature film. I pictured myself making YouTube videos, filming and editing them, all by myself. I want to write short stories, collections of micro fiction, children's books. I want to make web comics nad graphic novels and try my hand at writing a movie script. I want to do all of it, and more.

When people ask me what I want to do with my life--or "what I want to be when I grow up"--my answer is, automatically, to write. That's not a lie--I do want to write. But I want to do more than that, too.

I don't just want to write--I want to tell stories, in any media I can. I want to create stuff, all day long, for the rest of my life. I don't want to be defined by just oen thing, one skillset. I want to be able to make all sorts of things, and let my stories reach all sorts of people.

Seven-year-old me had it right all along--I want to be an artist.

For so long, I struggled to find My Thing. I tried to narrow my life down, to find that one skill or passion that I could follow for the rest of my life. But you can't narrow your life down to just one thing. There will always be other shiney hobbies and skills and worlds calling out to you, begging to be explored. That's what I'm doing now; I'm making the things I want to make, right now, in any way I can.

Because that is what I want to be when I grow up.


Until later,

- Justyne

Ink (Micro-Fiction Monday)

Pens were her thing. Gell pens, quil pens, ball point pens, black pens, blue pens, sparkly pens, pens that looked professional and pens that looked like they were retrieved as a prize in a cereal box. She collected all pens of all sizes. She had more pens than one could use in a lifetime.

She made a point to use each pen at least once, but never let them die. Before the beautiful ink could fade away, she would tuck it safely among the others, moving on to a new colour, a new brand, a new texture. She had plenty to choose from; she was never lacking.

She wrote with her pens, and she drew with her pens. Her pens formed stories that reached the very brink of her imagination; the rough scratches shaped into wings that carried her far above the clouds, and the heads of dragons that became her companions.

She tried to draw on her own skin, to bring her fantasies into the real world. All that resulted were faded markings that wouldn't come off, no matter how hard she scrubbed. She covered these markings up--because just like the ink on the pages, these stories of hers were sacred. For her eyes only.
~~

Until later,

- Justyne

Perfect (Micro-Fiction Monday)

“Hold still.”

“Wait, my nose is itchy.”

“No! Don’t move!”

“But—“

“No.”

“I just—“

I flicked my paintbrush at him, making him flinch as paint droplets splattered against his face. “I said, don’t move!”

He frowned, but stayed put.

“Smile,” I ordered. He deepened his frown, undoubtedly just to spite me. “Smile,” I repeated, raising my paint brush again. “Blue isn’t exactly your colour.”

“I’m already wearing blue.”

“Which is why I told you to wear the red shirt, instead. Now shut up and smile.”

He grumbled and flashed a toothy, cheesy, definitely fake smile my way. “Happy?” he muttered through gritted teeth.

“Thrilled,” I said drily. His smile loosened.

“If you were this opposed to posing,” I said, running my brush across the canvas, “then why didn’t you let me just take the photograph?”

“Because then I’d just be watching you paint,” he said. “That’s no fun.”

I peered around my work in progress to cock an eyebrow at him. “And standing still as a statue is?”

“Well, yeah. Because now I can do this—“ He waved his arms up, quickly and wildly, before returning them to their assigned positions. “—and you get mad.”

I glared at him.

“See?” he said. His smile was real now. “You’re mad. I’m giddy. Isn’t this fun?”

I rolled my eyes and sent another flick of paint at his face. “An absolute blast.”

It was another couple hours before I finished the painting. It wasn’t my best work—unsurprising, since it was a project for class that I left until the last minute—but still, it was decent.

“You missed a spot,” he said from behind me, peering over my shoulder.

“I did?” I scanned my eyes over the painting, analyzing every shade, every brushstroke. “Where?”

His arm reached around me and grabbed my thinnest brush, dipping it in the blue paint and reaching towards the canvas. Before I can stop him, he dabbed it on lightly, mimicking the paint I had splattered onto his face.

“There,” he said. He looked down at me and dabbed me lightly on the nose. “Perfect.”

~~

Until later,

- Justyne