Beginning Anyway

I bought a watercolor book at the beginning of December. Actually, I bought two of them with the intention of gifting them for Christmas. I wasn’t sure yet just who would receive them. I loved them. There was just something about the almost paint-by-numbers quality of them while still holding room for personal touches of creativity.

I ended up giving one to my niece Olivia on Christmas morning, but I kept one for myself. I actually gave Liv my favorite one—the one with woodland animals that were adorable. I kept the one with flowers. On each two-page spread was an example version on one side, complete with step-by-step directions of how to create the image. On the other side of the page was a sketch outline.

At the time, I didn’t realize how much that small purchase would end up symbolizing for me.

This week, being iced in my home, I pulled out my watercolor book. I started. And almost immediately, I was reminded how vulnerable it feels to begin something creative. I think that creativity in one area flows into others. I’m opening myself up to create without judgment. Is that easy? No. I stared at that blank page in my shiny new watercolor booklet for a long time, working up the nerve to put brush to paper. I played with the water and the paints on the safety of my small paper plate for awhile before I could bring myself to actually paint in the book.

That hesitation felt familiar.

Around the same time, I set intentions for the coming year. The week between Christmas and the New Year was when I devoted time to this task. Flow is my overarching word. Flow in writing, in work, in my processes, communication, and yes—creativity. I seek an overall flow and ease in my day. Not like I’m afraid of hard work; that’s not the issue. It’s more like I want a rhythm.

And suddenly, the watercolor made sense. The pause before the first brushstroke. The practice on the paper plate. The slow build of confidence. It all mirrored what I’ve been asking for in my life.

This week’s snow days have allowed me to really and truly spend time with myself. I wrote. A lot. I have loved every minute of it. My goals this year are big. Yes, I published a book last year and will spend much of this year promoting it. But the book I am working on now is a huge leap. It is forcing me out of my comfort zone by dragging and pulling me with it. It’s changing my writing in big ways.

It’s fiction.

I have always, my whole life, said to myself—and out loud—that “I’m not creative enough to write fiction.” Give me a research paper about facts any day. My blog posts have always been a combination of research and instruction. I saw them as coaching out loud to the masses—albeit small masses—of people who might find them.

But fiction—creative writing? That was for other people.

When it comes to allowing myself the freedom to just “flow” in my writing, I have always hit a wall. It was fear. Fear of judgment, fear of letting go, fear of criticism, of not being good enough.

The same fear I felt staring at that blank watercolor page.

But this year, I’m doing it.

Am I still afraid? Absolutely.

But I am doing it.

Brush to paint to paper.

One word at a time.