Bringing Order to Disorder

If you’re not already famous and you decide to write a book, you have to work with absolutely no guarantee of success. Years pass, and you may still have nothing to show for your creative effort, nothing tangible, anyway—like an actual book. I used to be a photographer with a darkroom. I printed my own photographs and hand-colored some of them. By the end of the day, I had something to show for my effort, either a piece for a gallery or a commissioned portrait like the one below.

As the pandemic grinds on, I’m spending a lot of time on my laptop dreaming up characters for my next project, but I’m beset by a physical restlessness—not just to exercise, but to make something tangible like the photographs I used to spend so much time on. Something that’s not squirreled away in a digital file or that vanishes in a matter of minutes, like food. So many people are baking now. What are you doing? Making? If you feel restless like me, what quells it for you?

With people dying and the virus lurking in public places, I find myself wanting to bring new life to things. So I’m putting in plants around my tiny pond, replacing the ones the deer ate with ones I’m almost positive they won’t like. I’m sprucing up some outdoor furniture with paint and stenciling. Doing these things satisfies me deeply because I can see results even though nothing is finished yet. It’s about making patterns and creating order during a time of disorder. After working in the physical world this way, I can return to the blank page.

I’ve actually completed one hands-on project. After watching a bunch of tutorials on YouTube, I gave myself a haircut. This was the second time I’ve done this; the first was when I was six. All excited about my class picture the next day, I cut my bangs. My mother left them that way—they did, after all, match my front teeth. 

My bangs matched my teeth

Decades later, a new look

What keeps us creating when there's no guarantee of worldly success?

I often think about people who spend years on their craft, hoping for financial reward or public acclaim but knowing that it might never come. What fascinates them so much that they keep on working, regardless of the external results? Maybe it’s a love of the process—but the process has to go beyond just having a good time. It has to teach us something about ourselves, our lives, our world.

Last week, insecure about putting myself in cyperspace in a public way, I sent out my first newsletter, which let people know that I’ve finished my memoir, a coming-of-age story set in West Africa. People I haven’t seen in years—and some I’ve never met—wrote back to congratulate me and tell me they can’t wait to read The Geography of Desire. I’m forever grateful for their enthusiastic support.

I’ve tried several studios over the years, but this is where I work best.

When I say I’ve “finished” my memoir, it doesn’t mean I’ve found a publisher—only that after years of writing, getting feedback, and revising, I’m satisfied that I’ve made the manuscript the best as I can. Now it’s time to start looking for a literary agent, who will hopefully sell my work to a publisher. Many writers—especially unknown ones like me—approach scores of agents before landing one. Some never do. 

I began my bookover a decade ago, knowing that it might not get picked up by a big house like Penguin. But the longer I worked, the less important that seemed. I became absorbed by the process: making a little-known corner of the world come alive, getting at the emotional truth of my story, and creating a narrative with forward momentum. I became more confident in my writing and gained a deeper understanding of my life. And that—whether I end up publishing with a big house, a little indie press, or a site like Wattpad—is precious to me. 

If you’re one of those people making art and hoping to sell it but knowing you might fail, ask yourself what your creative process teaches you about yourself, your life, your world. Then, when the indifference of the marketplace makes you wonder why you keep it up, you’ll have your answer.