Tag: Creativity

Creativity is a Mindset

heathersavage1

You’ve probably heard that studies have shown that children are more creative than adults.

The “Paperclip Test,” in particular, is often used to show that 98% of 5-yr olds, 30% of 10-yr olds, 12% of 15-yr olds, and just 2% of adults tested in the “genius” range, determined by the number of ideas they had about how to use paperclips. This test tests divergent thinking, in other words ideas that do not have to go together, work, or make sense.

As a creative adult, I have a lot of questions about this test.

Perhaps that is evidence of my divergent thinking – questioning the authorities. It has gotten me in trouble plenty of times.

Questions are often interpreted as attacks or judgments. (This will play into my point.)

As a creative adult, I know first-hand that actually creating something requires BOTH divergent and convergent thinking.

If it didn’t work, is it finished?

Do we credit Thomas Edison for inventing the incandescent lightbulb before it was successful? No! Thomas Edison went through many versions of lightbulbs before it was a success. Divergent thinking allowed him to try more things, but convergent thinking helped him learn from previous attempts how to make the new attempt better.

Mulling over ways to use a paperclip is not necessarily a test of creativity. It is only a test of divergent thinking. Could the test subjects actually create something and use their paperclips in the way they imagined?

In my elementary school art class, we sometimes made things out of clay. Those were some of my favorite school memories. Many of the students made mugs. Others made some sort of platter, I guess. I decided one year I was going to make a coin purse.

Yes, a coin purse.

There’s divergent thinking for you.

Did it work? I think you know the answer.

No, a clay coin purse is not a coin purse. Once the clay is dry, it cannot open and close to hold coins. I was probably old enough to know better when I made it, and I cannot for the life of me understand why I thought this was a good idea. I joke about it know and say it is my interpretation of a coin purse found in an archeological dig.

But my point is: did I create a clay coin purse? No.

That said…

A base of divergent thinking is necessary as a bed of new ideas to draw from so that convergent thinking can narrow them down and allow the best options to be picked. The best ideas cannot be found if there is an insufficient number of ideas at the start.

The divergent thinking test is still very important.

WHY are 98% 5-yr olds, yet only 2% of adults, divergent thinkers?

This is my hypothesis:

Children have more divergent thinking because they are 1) more curious and 2) less judgmental.

Children, by nature, know nothing about the world. They live in utter wonder, curious about everything. That is why they ask “why?” They are constantly exploring, even when they put stuff in their mouths as young babies.

Children ask “why?” and they ask “what if?”

I asked myself, “what if?” once. When I was three, I said to myself, “I wonder what would happen if I somersaulted down the stairs?” And so, I tried it.

It didn’t end well. I told you my divergent thinking sometimes gets me in trouble.

A normal adult would have enough experience to use convergent thinking to discern that idea is a bad one.

No discernment is problematic. This is why young children need constant supervision. They don’t have the discernment to know what ideas to act on and which to avoid.

But, on the other side, too much judgment squelches creativity.

Convergent thinking can get too tight when it quickly assesses ideas as “bad” or “impractical” before they have had a chance to be tested.

Of course, there needs to be a balance between divergent and convergent thinking.

But when it comes to wondering why adults lack divergent thinking, we need to olook back on why children are so good at it.

Are adults less curious and more judgmental?

I would argue yes.

Most adults have established their patterns and are satisfied enough to not explore further. They know the food they like and make the same things for meals because it’s easy. They know how to get to work and are not likely to “go a different way” just because. That would be a waste of time.

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    These are simple examples, but it’s easy to get stuck in the everyday sameness. It’s comfortable. As the saying goes, don’t fix what’s not broken.

    Many look at the world and see the status quo. They believe they know “what works” and “what doesn’t work” – or they are unwilling to take the risk of failure to see if something might work.

    No wonder only 2% of the adult population uses a significant amount of divergent thinking. It’s super risky!

    I understand that, to a degree.

    But when it extrapolates into, “I’m not going to entertain new ideas or experiences” the lack of newness leads to the quenching of creativity.

    The same way a lack of an influx of fresh water leads to stagnation in a pond.

    People like to blame “school” on the crushing of creativity.

    But it is not school per se that destroys divergent thinking. It is authorities. It could be a teacher. It could be a parent. A church leader. A coach.

    The decrease in creativity is not due to knowledge. It is due to the suppression of curiosity, the development of judgmental attitudes, and an over-focus on maintaining the status quo and following the rules. Knowledge alone does not cause those problems. Instead, it is the cultural and emotional environment in which one learns or is raised.

    (That said, I am aware that, more and more, teachers’ ability to be creative in the classroom is hampered by those in authority over them. But it is important to point out that the squashing of divergent thinking can happen in other places, too, and is not simply a school problem.)

    Some in authority will entertain the questions: Why? What if? Can I try something different? Good teachers, parents, leaders and coaches will supervise and even explore with their student, kid, or protégé to help them investigate those questions in a safe way and understand the results. They may even come to accept answers they don’t like.

    The good news is that some people will bust through the limitations. For them, the pressure to conform will only cause their inner fire to think differently to burn hotter. Some might call them “strong-willed.”

    But most will accept the constraints, which over time become self-imposed.

    There is a way to break free from the ho-hum and embrace divergent thinking and become more creative. Adults may need to get some oil on the creaky creative joints that haven’t been used for a while.

    But that doesn’t mean they can’t be creative.

    Creativity is not out of reach for adults. It is not something that disappears. It only gets buried, hidden. It can be revived with practices that encourage exploration, wonder, and divergent thinking.

    Creativity is not a skill one has or doesn’t have. It is a mindset that can be changed.

    How to do that is something I will cover in a future post.

    Let me know your thoughts! Do you consider yourself creative? Why or why not? What role does divergent/convergent thinking play in your life? Tell me about it in the comments or send me a message here.

    Has it Started to Get Hard Yet?

    heathersavage1

    I was asked this question the other day, in regard to my efforts in music composition.

    It is a truly ridiculous question. Out of respect, I won’t say who asked it, but I will say this person should have known better.

    While I rolled with it at the time and didn’t take offense, thinking about it more (and discussing it with my husband and my best friend) I realized it needed a better answer than the one I gave.

    And that answer deserved a blog post. So, here it is.

    Has music composition “started to get hard” for me?

    Well, music composition has always been hard. Or, at least not easy.

    It’s hard when I don’t feel like I have any good ideas.

    Yesterday I worked at composing for five hours and wrote nothing down. That doesn’t mean I didn’t experiment with ideas. It just means I didn’t catch any worth keeping. Like undersized fish.

    It’s hard when, instead of going out to see my husband’s gig, I stay home by myself and compose.

    I have learned to be by myself. A lot. Sometimes, I like it. Sometimes, I don’t. Either way, I feel I am communicating that I am antisocial. I’m really not. But I have to work, and this is my work.

    It’s hard when I feel discouraged about how slowly my composition career is growing, and I wonder if it will get off the ground before I die.

    I can relate to orchardists. Do you know how long it takes for a fruit tree to produce fruit? Several years. An orchardist must invest a tremendous amount of time, effort, and MONEY into purchasing the land and the trees, planting and tending, for YEARS before even a first modest crop is produced. That’s what a composition career is like. But instead of buying and planting trees, I am writing pieces. And, like the orchardist, I can use the best skills I have, but I am still susceptible to things outside of my control, like the weather (or in my case, public opinion) that could ruin everything before it even starts. Unlike the orchardist who can get a loan from a bank, I can’t even get funding from a grant before my work is proven.

    It’s hard when there’s no/not enough money coming in from my composition.

    Yes, I work. Not just at composition. I do other work, mostly playing the piano or teaching, that brings in income. But it is demoralizing to compose and not see rewards from your efforts. The Bible says workers are worthy of their wages. But our society says workers are only worthy of their wages if society determines that what they produce has value and only the wages society is willing to pay. This problem is not unique to artists, but it is hard nonetheless.

    It’s hard when I don’t hear back from calls for scores and competitions.

    It’s worse than rejections. At least a rejection makes me feel seen. Like I actually exist. But not hearing back feels like I just sent a piece into a black hole and no one cared enough to respond.

    It’s hard when it feels like other musicians don’t respect composers.

    Like the people who don’t let composers know the results of calls for scores and competitions. Composers spend many, many hours composing the piece. But they can’t spend 20 minutes getting an email written? I see performers complaining on Facebook about the cost of scores. They wouldn’t play for free. But they want to composers to do their work for nothing? I see certain ensembles asking composers to pay them to look at their scores, but if they perform the pieces, they don’t pay for the copies and probably don’t even report a performance properly so the composers can get royalties.

    Of course, not all musicians are like this. Many ensembles treat composers fairly.

    But it is hard to do the work of vetting who I will send scores to.

    It’s hard to write music in a style or combination I have not used before.

    It’s hard to figure out how to communicate and notate how to produce non-traditional sounds.

    It’s hard to figure out how to reproduce a percussion sound you fell in love with, but the instruments aren’t made any more because the inventor and sole producer died.

    It’s hard to write music in combinations for which there are no models (at least that my professor could think of.)

    It’s hard to know if all your ideas are going to work.

    Composers don’t have a true lab. Sure, a computer program can reproduce some sounds. But not all. And there aren’t always live musicians around to try out what you need to hear when you need to hear it. And sometimes the set-up needed is not something that can be assembled without a great deal of planning.

    Sometimes, the test happens in real time on stage at the premiere in front a live audience. What if it flops?

    This hasn’t happened to me yet – and I certainly hope it never does – but that would be hard.

    It’s hard to go through the process of composing.

    Thankfully, I have done this often enough that I know what to expect of my own process. (Every composer’s process is a little different.) I know it can take a long time for a good idea to ferment in my mind. Sometimes that is scary because I feel like I am getting way too close to a deadline. And I am not a procrastinator! But I can’t magically make a good idea. I can not-so-magically come up with a bad one, though.

    As George Crumb said, “it is easy to write unthinking music.”

    But hard does not mean not worth it.

    I wrote to my dear friend, Jerry, a 90 year-old composer who I consider to be my adopted grandmother, this week about the thoughts I’ve been tossing back and forth in my mind regarding my plans for after I graduate in ONE YEAR. Time flies by faster and faster as you get older, and I can’t believe I am already halfway through my master’s.

    I shared my frustration with the significant number of views my compositions get on YouTube. But few score sales. No comments. The significant number of hits on my website. But few subscribers, few comments, and few score downloads. It seems many experience my music or my writing, but just don’t engage. I feel like I am missing the mark.

    That’s hard.

    So, what happened in the two days since I wrote to Jerry?

    Two people liked blog posts and I got a new subscriber.

    Then, a huge surprise – my piece, Eidolons was selected for performance by chamber music players of the Raleigh Symphony!

    The life of a composer is like a roller coaster. Serious dips. Glorious highs.

    But riding a roller coaster all the time is hard.

    Knowing whether or not you should stay on or get off the ride is hard.

    Is it “starting to get hard?”

    No, it is not starting to get hard.

    It has always been stinking hard.

    From Apparition to Inspiration

    heathersavage1

    In the last couple of posts, I have been writing about inspiration. In “Inspiration is a Lucky Penny” I write about how finding inspiration requires discipline and practice. It doesn’t just happen. You have to keep an eye out for it, just like paying attention to changes in light can lead you to a lucky penny.

    In “An Attack of the Zielschmerz” I gave an example of how I found inspiration in a new word I learned in an email newsletter I read regularly.

    Today’s post is about how I grew inspiration from a spark (or, rather, a smoldering ember) into a fully engaged fire.

    A piece I wrote last fall started with a feeling. A vague feeling.

    I knew I was going to write a piece for flute and clarinet, and I knew I wanted to explore microtonality and multiphonics. But that was all I had.

    Part of my compositional process involves connecting my music to extra-musical sources. It helps keep me on track with form, motives and colors I want to use in my piece and excluding the ones that don’t help to convey the idea of the extra-musical source.

    That is where I was stuck. I didn’t have an extra-musical source. I only had a vague feeling. I kept searching for what this vague feeling was pointing at, for about a week, with no success.

    Then the solution came to me: use my favorite resource, the THESAURUS.

    I looked up “vague” in the thesaurus, and I went down the rabbit holes thesauri lead to, following all the tunnels between words, searching for the just the right word that would solidify the inspiration.

    I finally found it: Eidòlon.

    Eidòlon is an ancient Greek word that refers to an apparition or an ideal – a ghost, a fantasized hero, or even an idol.

    This was the vague thing.

    After that, I took another step in my artistic process and looked up other artwork associated with “Eidòlon.”

    Low and behold, I found Walt Whitman’s poem, Eidòlons!

    The poem is amazing. You can read it here.

    I was drawn immediately to two stanzas. The first is this:

    Lo, I or you,
    Or woman, man, state, known or unknown,
    We seeming solid wealth, strength, beauty build,
    But really build eidòlons    .

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      I was reminded of the biblical book of Ecclesiastes.

      All this STUFF we amass? It means nothing. We think money will get us somewhere. Or physical strength (or political power?) Or beauty? We build stuff…like houses. We collect treasures. But it will all be gone. It doesn’t last. We can’t take it with us when we die. It’s all just a phantom in the end.

      Eidòlons!

      King Solomon called it “a chasing after the wind.”

      I was reminded, too, of what Jesus said, “Do not build up for yourselves treasures on earth, where moth and rust destroy and where thieves break in and steal. But build up for yourselves treasures in heaven, where moth and rust do not destroy and where thieves do not break in and steal. For where your treasure is, there your heart will be also.” (Matthew 5:19-21.)

      After reading Whitman’s poem, I knew why I was feeling so “vague.” This was the first piece I wrote after moving to North Carolina and starting my master’s degree in music.

      My old life was gone. I moved away from friends and family, and we left our house.

      Our house.

      We loved it.

      It needed work – more than we could afford to fix, really, but the land was even better – a very quiet 2-1/2 acre oasis in the woods. It was hard to leave that. I still miss it.

      I have kept in touch with my friends and family, of course, but we will never get that property back.

      But you know what? It was an eidòlon. Something that doesn’t last.

      The poem spoke to the intense feelings I was having about leaving a home – something that represents (to a degree, anyway) security and financial success – to pursue artistic development, which on the surface looks like almost the complete opposite.

      No wonder I was feeling so “vague.” I was perceiving the eidòlons.

      This next stanza also stood out to me:

      Ever the dim beginning.
      Ever the growth, the rounding of the circle,
      Ever the summit and the merge at last, (to surely start again.)
      Eidòlons! Eidòlons!

      After reading it, I decided to make the form of my piece into an “imperfect mirror” which means that the end of the piece is a reflection of the beginning. Which it mostly is, but not exactly. I won’t bog you down with the details, but I will say it is “imperfect” in the way ripples in water may not reflect every bit of an image accurately.

      My piece explores the blurred reality of pitch and rhythm through a nebulous sense of meter and tunings that seem “not quite right” based on multiphonics and microtones between the pitches Western ears are accustomed to.

      Eidòlons! Eidòlons!

      Here is a video of the premiere at the International Festival of Music by Women, on March 8, 2024. Dr. Soo Goh is playing clarinet, and Carol Shansky is playing flute. Many thanks to them for their willingness to bring this piece to life, and for their encouragement of my work. They did such a great job!

      I’d love to hear your thoughts – on the poem, on the idea of eidòlons, on the piece! Leave a comment!

      An Attack of the Zielschmerz

      heathersavage1

      If you read my last post, you know that I look for inspiration everywhere. The inspiration for today’s post comes from this essay in The Marginalian, by Maria Popova, an email newsletter on philosophy and art. I find many good tidbits in this newsletter and even have a commonplace book (rather, a digital file) full of quotes, many of which I came across in The Marginalian.

      In reading Maria’s essay, I learned the following term: Zielschmerz.

      According to The Dictionary of Obscure Sorrows by John Koenig, which Maria reviewed in her essay, Zielschmerz is “the dread of finally pursuing a lifelong dream, which requires you to put your true abilities out there to be tested on the open savannah, no longer protected inside the terrarium of hopes and delusions that you started up in kindergarten and kept sealed as long as you could. German Ziel, goal + Schmerz, pain. Pronounced “zeel-shmerts.”

      The hardest thing in life, I think, is to be true to yourself. I don’t mean this in a selfish, no-one-else-matters kind of way. What I mean is being honest about who you are and what you want. That is the most vulnerable someone can be; it is in those moments we are baring our soul.

      When we tell someone we love them.

      When we claim an identity others don’t approve of.

      When we make necessary decisions that could have negative consequences for other people.

      When we start our own business.

      When we make art.

      Zielschmerz is a real thing, and that Zielschmerz may be THE thing that keeps so many adults from moving into being true to themselves.

      It takes courage to be real, because it is very risky. The possibility of rejection or failure looms large, and if the consequences were not so substantive, the fortitude it takes to live true to oneself would not be worth noting.

      When we’re young, risks don’t have repercussions as great. If we fall, we bounce back a lot easier. At the same time, we have the comfort and support of being with peers who are in the same situation. Everyone is learning new things, everyone is trying to figure out how to get through life.

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        But, as the years progress, life gets more cemented, and our joints stiffen; it becomes more difficult to maneuver into something new.

        The sediment piles over the dreams with time, and it gets harder and harder to dig out what has been buried.

        Those dreams from kindergarten. Why were they hidden and protected in the first place?

        Because someone told us they weren’t good dreams.

        Not practical. Outside the norm. Pretentious.

        The killers of dreams told us we needed to stay in our place – the place they told us we belonged.

        We believed them, and along the way became accustomed to that way of thinking, even adopting it ourselves as justification for keeping the dreams hidden and protected.

        We thought it was better to believe them to be wrong than to let the dreams see the light of day and risk proving them right.

        I liken the feel of Zielschmerz to getting on a thrill coaster.

        When you’re young and carefree, you look forward to the ride. It’s more exciting than scary. But, as I have gotten older, I strap myself in, and thoughts of dread immediately enter my mind: “What have I gotten myself into? What is the actual risk regarding those health condition warning signs? When is high blood pressure too high to ride roller coasters? When was the last time my blood pressure was checked? Am I going to die of a heart attack in the next two minutes? Should I scream as loud as I can to get them to let me out before this thing starts rolling?

        They are similar to the thoughts that immediately come to mind when I am getting ready to release a music composition into the world:

        What if they think my piece is stupid? What if they think it is just awful, unskilled writing? What if it is, and I don’t know it? (Can I recover from such public embarrassment?) Can I afford to take the risk on making this recording? Will it be worth it, or a waste of a lot of money? What if I say the wrong thing and they misunderstand my politics? What if I don’t say enough and they misunderstand my politics? (After all, cancel culture has been around a long time, you know, and many musical artists and composers were, at minimum, questioned by the FBI during the Red Scare…) How long will it take for me to “find my people” who appreciate my work? What if I never do? Maybe I should just go hide my dreams again before they get too far into the world.”

        This is Zielschmerz, the pain of reaching toward goals you kept hidden for so long.

        It hurts, but it’s worth it.

        I get a sinking feeling in my gut every time I send a piece to a competition or call for scores, every time I ask someone to look at it, every time I put a piece up on Soundcloud or YouTube, every time I make a post about my work on social media. I’m not sure it will ever go away.

        At least I have a word for it now and can identify what’s happening.

        I’m having an attack of the Zielschmerz!

        Does this resonate with you? Tell me about it by leaving a comment!

        Inspiration is a Lucky Penny

        heathersavage1

        It’s a common misconception that a spark of inspiration instantly brings about the creation of an artwork. I wish it were that easy. But, like most artists, I must “work out” that inspiration by dutifully showing up with pencil in hand to turn the inspiration into notes, erasing and rewriting if what I have put down does not quite capture the idea.

        I think it is also a common misconception that inspiration just strikes an artist like a bolt of lightning.

        Finding inspiration is work, too. “Becoming inspired” is a discipline all its own, because you must always be on the lookout for it.

        Many years ago, I read about how lucky people are not actually lucky. Rather, they are very observant, notice opportunities, and are ready to take advantage of them when they come. That is what finding inspiration is like. Inspiration is the “lucky penny” you find on the sidewalk. You have to be observant to notice the penny in the first place and be ready to pick it up.

        The penny didn’t show up for the “lucky” person; it was laying there, waiting to be discovered. But most pass by those pennies unaware, paying no attention to how the light is reflecting irregularly on the pavement.

        Often, inspiration is about as exciting as a lucky penny. What can a single penny buy, after all? Well, a penny can’t buy anything anymore, but the creative mind will take that penny and come up with a story about it. giving it meaning.

        Like this blog post…finding inspiration in a lucky penny to tell you how inspiration is like a lucky penny.

        I find lucky pennies frequently; I came across one just last week. A couple of months ago, I found a quarter. Despite the fact that loose change has become less common due to the move toward digital currency, I continue to find random coins.

        Inspiration is scattered about. It is like finding a single coin in every spot a multifaceted prism refracts light. The treasure is found in the process of collecting individual coins, rather than finding a whole pot of gold at the end of a rainbow.

        And so, I am an inspiration hunter, and inspiration could be anywhere.

        Inspiration might come from the weather. Or it might come from the pattern of sunlight on a forest floor after it filters through the trees. It might come from a book or a poem, or through a conversation with a friend. Maybe it will come from traveling, or from experiencing an already-existing work of art.

        When you have practiced become inspired, you know that anything, anything that has caught your attention could be the start of a new piece of art.

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          In fact, inspiration is so abundant it is impossible to collect all the coins laying around. Still, it is useful to pick up as many as possible, far beyond the number you could ever actually use.

          I keep a notebook of ideas. I have at least twenty pieces on my “to compose” list. I currently have seventy-two potential blog posts in my draft folder. Both of these lists get longer and longer since it is easier to come up with ideas than to complete projects. But, if I don’t write down my inspirations, I will lose them. So, I keep my inexhaustible lists.

          These lists are not fleshed-out with details about how I will go about writing the piece, or the blog post. Most of them are simply a working title or a short phrase or sentence – enough to remind me of the original seed of the idea so I can bring it back to memory when I am ready to work on the project.

          I may never use some of the inspirations on my lists. I might run out of time, or my interest in some may have faded. That’s OK. I am not a slave to my inspirations; they are there to help me. I keep my cache full, which serves me when I am at a loss for ideas.

          (I am never at a loss for ideas, because I collect them. That is the whole point.)

          I think most people experience inspirational moments a lot more often than they realize. but they probably dismiss these oddities as meaningless, like worthless pennies. What if, instead, they saw these small observations as possibilities? As seeds for creative projects? As inspiration?

          Here’s a quick true-life example:

          Last week, when I was leaving the library at the end of the day, I was hit on by an Irish man in the elevator. As I hit the buttons, I simply asked him if he was also going to the first floor. The man was nice enough; it was a pleasant interaction, but he was clearly curious to know what I was doing after work. That is definitely not something that happens every day. This moment could have just been a chuckle lost to time. But I thought to myself, “You know, this would make a great first line to a novel or short story: ‘My mistake was asking which floor he was going to.'”

          Now, since I am not a fiction writer, I am not going to use this line. However, if you are, feel free to take it. Or, perhaps, it will inspire something else.

          May your days be filled with things weird and special, strange, and poignant, and overfill your purse or pockets with lucky “pennies.”

          Happy inspiration hunting!

          Where do you find inspiration? Tell me about it by leaving a comment!

          Expect the Haters

          heathersavage1

          I recently had the opportunity to attend an online entrepreneurial music business workshop. Several presenters gave ideas and suggestions on all aspects of building one’s personal brand, networking, marketing, creating content like podcasts, and finding new students. It was all very helpful. But one session in particular stood out: Jeremy Todd, in his session on “Building a Business Mindset,” said straight out: “Expect the haters.”

          Wow. That phrase shocked me: EXPECT the haters. In other words, getting push-back or a lack of encouragement, even from people you love – family or friends – is inevitable.

          This is something I wish I had known years ago.

          Learning new things as an adult is hard. When we’re young, learning new stuff is a way of life, for everyone. When we’re in school, our classmates are also learning, even if it’s not at the same rate. Based on my own experience, I would argue that most kids do not know how much they have to learn. They don’t yet have an end-goal in sight. Failure may sting, but it’s not particularly risky. We might get a bad grade or embarrass ourselves, but we’re not going to lose our house. However, as adult learners, we have a different perspective. We’re more aware of how far behind we are as beginners and how fast we need to catch up if we’re trying to establish a career. We’re more aware of our personal limitations; we’re more aware of who is already successful; we’re more aware of the cost of learning, in terms of money, time, and effort. It’s stressful.

          Venturing out on a new project or working to turn a dream into reality as an adult is even harder. It’s one thing to make the effort to learn a new skill. It’s quite another to take that skill and make it public, whether through a new business, an invention, or a piece of art. What if it fails? The adult life is one full of responsibilities to other people. It could be a family dependent on you to provide food; it could be the bank or a landlord expecting payment. There’s not a lot of room for risk and failure.

          It is easier to play it safe.

          (This is not a criticism of those who choose not to go on career or creative adventures. I do not think everyone is given an entrepreneurial spirit.)

          What happens sometimes is those who want to play it safe may criticize those who start new things. They become the “haters”: those who outright discourage you from trying, tell you it won’t work, demonstrate disinterest, don’t show support, and refuse to lend aid or make an investment, however small. Jeremy Todd says you will get even more push-back from those who are close to you, but it makes sense. He likes to think it comes from a place of love: these people are afraid for you. They don’t want to see you fail. Or, he says, it might come from a place of feeling inferior: their feelings are hurt because they don’t have the talent, inspiration, or motivation to do what you’re doing.

          Earlier this week, I read “Ignore Everybody and 39 Other Keys to Creativity” by Hugh MacLeod which, incidentally, is probably the best book I have read thus far on creativity, though I am obligated to give a warning about the language. MacLeod takes a very practical look at working and living as a creative individual, which makes this book stand apart from other, also favorite, excellent, but more philosophical books such as “The War of Art” by Steven Pressfield, “Big Magic” by Elizabeth Gilbert, or “Walking on Water” by Madeleine L’Engle.

          In “Ignore Everybody…”, MacLeod has a different take on “haters.” He says, “Good ideas alter the power balance in relationships. That is why good ideas are always initially resisted.” Wow. It’s not that other people want to control you. They just want things to stay the same – the way they know and expect, an attempt to retain a sense of internal comfort.

          This really does help me understand why I should not take things too personally. I have never expected everyone to appreciate my music, but it is enlightening to understand now that some of the worst push-back can come from the people who are the closest. That connection may be precisely why some are so uncomfortable with my new ventures.

          I have always liked sharing, and that includes discoveries I make along the way. I admit it is disappointing when those I care about want to stay back rather than join me in the adventure. But at least I now know, despite how it is communicated, that is not a rejection of me but a reflection of where they’re at.

          As Hugh MacLeod says, “There’ll be a time in the beginning when you have to press on, alone, without one tenth of the support you probably need. This is normal. This is to be expected.”

          Maybe, someday, the haters will change their minds.

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          A professional recording of my piece for string orchestra, Daughter of the Stars, is now available. It can be found here.

          Declaring One’s Self

          heathersavage1

          The term “declaring one’s self” often refers to making a pledge of commitment and support. It can also mean stating strongly one’s opinion or revealing one’s true character or identity.  In short, it’s about owning up to a position, saying “this is where I stand.”

          Composition is an exercise of “declaring one’s self.” During the writing phase, I sort out my ideas, clarify and refine them. But once a piece is completed, I own it. I chose all the notes, all the voicing, all the instrumentation. I have declared myself to this piece. I stand behind it, taking full responsibility for it. I have said, in no uncertain terms, “this is what I want.”

          It is at once empowering and terrifying. I feel like this every time I get on a roller coaster or when I am halfway through a mountain trail and find myself in a difficult spot. On the one hand, I am quite satisfied with myself for having the guts to get on the ride or start the hike. I didn’t chicken out. But once in the midst of it, I sometimes wonder what I have gotten myself into. There’s no getting off the ride, there’s no going back. There is only one way to go, and it is forward, come what may.

          To me, writing a piece of music and presenting it is a bit like laying out my heart in front of the entire world. I painstakingly ripped it out of my soul and laid it bare.  It cannot  return to the depths from which it came. It has seen light and has been exposed, all of it: the good, the bad, and the ugly. At that point, all I can do is see what happens. Will it get performed? Will it be well received? Will it be found lacking? Will my friends encourage me or will even they have nothing to say, finding nothing to praise? I feel accomplished, having finished a project. But I also feel extremely vulnerable. My inner thoughts, shown in the choices I made to create the piece, are on public display.

          Declaring one’s self can be a dangerous activity. Some people will not like what you have to say or who you are. The practice of saying “this is what I want” clearly and firmly is an important discipline. So many times we are hesitant to reveal our inner desires out of fear they will be rejected or scorned. But pretending that our own desires don’t exist or are unimportant is a refusal to stand by our own selves and a form of self-rejection that says we are worthy of being dismissed or ignored. I’m not saying that every single desire we have is a good one that should be “published”, but too many times we hide ourselves for no reason other than simply being afraid.

          However, the skill of declaring one’s self can be developed with practice. It does get easier. The first hill on the roller coaster is the scariest. One hike up a mountain gives confidence to do the next one.  As the saying goes, what doesn’t kill us makes us stronger. What is the worst that can happen? A rejection? Someone gets angry? I am embarrassed? Those things will not destroy me. I may get knocked back a little. I may hesitate. I may need to recover. But I pick myself up and write again, with a little more strength, confidence, and determination.