What They Don't Tell You About Being The Creative One

What they don’t tell you about being “The Creative One” is that everything you do is a copy of someone else.

Your notebook is filled with snowflakes in bright pink, purple, and blue. Ever since you saw Frozen, it’s all you think about. Your pen draws each stroke like an ice skater glides across the rink. The geometric shapes and straight lines are soothing to draw, and it is more entertaining than listening to dry lectures. When you’re not drawing snowflakes, you’re writing Sherlock Holmes fiction. As you sit and listen to Dr. Davis drone on and on about something completely unrelated to Child Psychology, young John and Sherlock are adventuring through the streets of London with the newest addition to their team, a bloodhound pup named Toby.

Your art, your writing, it’s just something you do when you’re bored, or when you’d rather be anywhere else. Your art continues like this until you meet the person who makes it more than just a hobby. He doesn’t have that small talk sound like everyone else has when you show them your art. He looks at the pages of your sketchbook without judgment. He jokes constantly. His sarcasm is quick. He’ll argue with you over nothing just to see you get flustered. Every scrap of paper he can get his hands on he immediately writes in a big calligraphic scrawl his first and last name, with middle initial for extra flair. You can’t tell if it’s a nervous tick or his narcissism peeking through.

Before you know it, he becomes your best friend. He teaches you a game he came up with that revolves around being observant of others, since that’s one of many things you have in common. The rules are that you can only describe a person with two words. He can only describe you with one, Mystery, but for you to describe him it’s four, Ocean in a Pen. This observation shocks him. Anyone else that he’s played this game with him before just said he was stubborn and rude.

He shows you how to write poetry. You copy it all. You come up with a game where he writes a line, then you write a line, until you get to the end of the page. You play games like these during the boring classes, passing notes back and forth to each other. He lets you borrow one of his calligraphy pens. You suddenly don’t want to use any other kind of pen. The Ocean in a Pen has finally gotten to you.

What they don’t tell you about being “The Creative One” is that people just expect you to be different but won’t care why you are different.

You notice the looks people give each other when they are angry or in love or sad. You’ll draw and write about it all. When they see what you’re doing, they will ask for a closer look at your sketchbook. You show them.

“That’s nice, honey.”

But they won’t get it and won’t ask any more questions about it because they don’t want to know. You are the tormented, untamable artist, and they wish to see the world the way they have always seen it. This makes making friends difficult. People don’t put lights in your head like art does. So, you quit trying. They nickname you the robot. At least it’s better than freak.

They forget the reason you’re at Bible college to begin with. You have not come to make art. You have not come to find a husband. You have come to become a missionary. An impossibility in their minds for a single woman. Maybe freak is a better description for who you are. You sit in classrooms of only men, when you’re supposed to be in the Women’s Bible Study class. When they ask you why you’re there, you say to learn. They laugh. Women can’t be preachers. Well, it’s a good thing you’re a missionary instead.

What they don’t tell you about being “The Creative One” is that your chronically creative mind will always jump to the worst conclusion first.

You get the call one morning that Dad is in the hospital, dying. He has had three heart attacks. Is he going to die? What if he’s dead by the time we get there? Ocean in a Pen is there in the chapel with you and your sister when you get the second call that your youth pastor is coming to get you. Dad is not expected to see the end of the day. You have never cried so hard in public before. The cold, logical, demeanor that you have built around yourself is shattered.

On the lengthy but speedy car ride home, your sister calls Mom to let her know what’s happening. You can hear the dial tone. Nerves rise again and you hear blood rushing to your ears. She picks up, and she says her rehearsed line about Dad being in the hospital. The woman on the other end of the call laughs and hangs up. This makes the car ride seem even longer.

What they don’t tell you about being “The Creative One” is that to make art, you must be aware of your emotions, even if you don’t recognize them at first.

When you finally arrive at the hospital, the fifth floor ICU is deathly quiet. No beeps from heart monitors, or scuffling rubber shoes from nurses rushing from patient to patient. You ask the nurse at the desk where he is, room 210. You push past the curtains into his room and are met with a blinking life support monitor and Dad, sleeping.

You won’t see him awake again.

A sensation hits you that you have never felt before.

He’s not here.

There is only peace. No sadness. No anger. Those emotions will come later. He has had two more heart attacks, and they only put him on life support instead of letting him go because your sister has power of attorney. It’s noon, now that she’s here, there is nothing else to do. It’s only a matter of hours before the final decision is made.

12:58 am, March 8th, 2015. Cox South Hospital, fifth floor ICU, room 210. Seven heart attacks in 12 hours. Age 49.

My grandmother blows her nose and attempts to dry her tears. “Say goodbye to your dad, Sarah.”

“Why? He’s not here.”

Clearly, he’s in heaven, and has been there since this morning. Why people are crying, you still don’t understand. He’s not in pain. He’s not struggling to stay alive anymore. He’s literally perfect. That’s what going to heaven does for a person. You go out in the hall, sit cross-legged on the floor, and crack open your Bible to a random page in Psalms. Even though there are three preachers in that room, you’re the only one who thought to bring a Bible. It’s not like it’s their job or anything.

You’re an outcast of your own, normally logical, head. Everything is absurd. Your heart, you just realized it was your heart that spoke to you and said He’s not here. Your mother laughed when she was told dad was dying. The preachers, who on any other occasion would have their Bibles, don’t. And you’re the only one who isn’t crying right now, because in your head, there’s no reason to.

When my father and my mother forsake me, then the LORD will take me up.

Precious in the sight of the LORD are the death of his saints.

Nothing makes sense but the words on the page. The cool rush of the air conditioner lulls you back into your thoughts and away from the absurdity.

What they don’t tell you about being “The Creative One” is that you’re the only one in your family that is qualified to pick out the colors of the flowers, ribbon, and casket of Dad.

The vents of the funeral home blow warm, comforting air to your face and warms your body from the icy March winds. You cannot escape the smell of fresh flowers and sandalwood. Stepping into the room where the samples of the caskets are is like stepping into another plane of existence. The warm dim light bounces off the polished corners of the carved wood samples and reminds you of a sky full of stars. The baby blue casket sample in the corner draws you to itself. It sparkles in the golden glow. It is smooth and cold to the touch. You run your finger around the beveled curves and to the tip of the corner. It is the only object that feels real. The quiet wordless music of familiar hymns plays softly, breaking you from your enchantment with the sparkling blue surface. The temperature cools and brings you to the dreaded realization that you and your family must make this choice. After a silent moment, one of very few quiet moments since your mother arrived from California, you hug her neck.

“Mom—” is the only word that escapes your lips before you burst into tears.

“It’ll be okay. Daddy’s in heaven.” She is cold like the room, but hugs you back, feigning tears.

You step back into the warm conference room where you first left the funeral director to look at the samples, and shiver. Whenever your mother and grandma get together, you know it’s only a matter of time before arguing ensues. Your knees give out from under you as you sit back in the cushioned chair. You wring your hands to feel the blood pulse through your veins again. The music that was once playing over the speakers is drowned by the argument of your sisters, Mom, and Grandma.

“Not royal or navy, that wouldn’t go with the casket.” They argue about the flowers.

The funeral director takes down notes and breathes in a hushed breath which reminds you to take one yourself. Your sister inserts that they should be white carnations dipped in baby blue. Mom makes even this into an argument.

“Should all the flowers be dyed, or just half of the flowers? What about the actual bud of the flower? Should it be all blue or only just part?”

You lean even further back in your chair and watch the absurdity unfold, silent as the funeral director. After about thirty minutes of arguing, they turn to you and say, “You’re the creative one, you pick it out.”

And you do.

As the only level-headed person in the room next to the funeral director, you make the executive decisions just to get it over with. Baby blue casket, cheap because you can’t afford anything else, ribbon that says Loving Father, and the white but dyed baby blue carnations. All the buds dyed only halfway blue so that some white still shows. He will faithfully take notes on the notepad like Moses chiseled the Ten Commandments, and only say a few words of affirmation to confirm the decisions.

When all the decisions have been finalized, you all will make a cacophonous sound of scooting chairs back and exiting the room. The music will return to your ears, and the vents will blow warm air on you again. You’ll be the last one out of the room. You’ll shake the funeral director’s hand, and hang on just a bit too long, because it is the only warm thing that still exists. He’ll give you a knowing smile and not let go until you do. You’ll later be thankful that the man was made of patience.

What they don’t tell you about being “The Creative One” is that when you need to write a letter to Dad to tell him how he will be remembered years from now—when you get married, when you have kids, when you grow up and realize that you still need him—for the first time in your life the words won’t come.

Instead, you draw a picture.

You gather all the materials and sit at the kitchen table under the sparkling chandelier, where everyone seems to congregate. You cannot bear to be alone in your dark room. With pencils and paper sprawled out on the table, you spend a few minutes mustering up the inspiration for the under-drawing. You look at everything and everyone besides the sketchbook in front of you. Dazzled by the chandelier, you think of stars. You always think of stars, Sarah. The flickering lightbulb, though it annoys the hell out of you, breaks you from your thoughts with an idea.

Three wolves at the pinnacle of a solid-rock cliff howling at the moon. In the top center of the page, you’ll draw the moon. On the moon is the face of a wolf in a velvety-purple, star-lit sky. To the left and right are evergreen trees, surrounding the wolves. A painstakingly detailed ink layer will be applied. The repetitive motion of the strokes will calm and soothe you. You’ll almost forget why you are drawing this picture.

When that’s done, you will move on to color with colored pencils. Paints of any kind are too much labor for this piece. You can’t even find the energy to eat, let alone set up a paint pallet. Pencils will do. Purple for the sky, a gray and blue mixture for the howling wolves, a white, blue, and gray mixture for the moon. Dark green for the evergreen trees and a rich sienna for the cliff. No black will be used. Dad would not want that.

You finally find some words to write down. You write a short speech of what you want to say, and jot down a few Bible verses. The service has not yet begun. You hold your picture, admiring it one last time. You made a copy of it in your personal sketchbook as a draft and decided to color it too when you had the energy, so you will always be able to look back on it.

But this one belongs to him.

You wish that he could sit up and look at it, and that you could tell him what it all means. Instead, he lies there, the stillest that you’ve ever seen him. The smell of the formaldehyde has dispersed a bit, and the flowers are a bit stronger now too, having been out of the cooler for a couple days. You don’t touch his cheek again. You know it will still be cold. You’re not brave enough to touch him at all. Instead, your youth pastor’s wife goes with you to the casket and lifts his hands so you can put the picture on his chest.

What they don’t tell you about being “The Creative One” is that when the words come back, they are sharp.

At the graveside service you stand next to your sisters, just past the tent the funeral home set up. It is not like it is in the movies. There’s no rain, thunder or lightning, no umbrellas, no black rain coats. The icy winds of March change into the blossoming spring-time sunshine.

Mom waves you over to come sit with her before the service starts. You cautiously sit down.

The preacher says a few words, and when he is done, he prays. He leads the gathering in singing “Victory in Jesus”.

You get up to leave, but Mom holds you in the chair and she whispers to you.

“I’m going to go back to California. Is that okay with you? I want to be with my family.”

No, you need her right now, but you’ve never been able to change her mind before.

“Sure. What’s it matter anyway?”

She hugs you and gets up to leave. You don’t bother to get up or turn around to watch her leave. The tears have stopped, and all you feel is anger. All you feel for a long time after that is anger. Not at Dad or your family. Just at Mom.

You never see her again.

What they don’t tell you about being “The Creative One” is that when the last shoe falls, and the dead are buried, art will help you find yourself again.

After a summer of depression and wondering if you will ever find a purpose in life again, your youth pastor will tell you, “Maybe you should go to art school. You’re good enough at it that you could make a career from it.”

You realize he’s right, and find the courage to go to art school. You ask everyone you know about where to apply. Your dentist, your chiropractor, your doctor, they all say the exact same thing. Go to Drury. They have a great art program. You don’t want to leave the state anyway. You don’t want to be anywhere else but with family.

Snowflakes slice your rosy cheeks as you trudge to the Pool Art Center with your giant portfolio bag. You just let it catch the wind behind you because it’s better than wrestling with it. It’s a kite, and you’re the string.

When you finally step inside the door, you go to the second-floor drawing studio and sit at your favorite drawing horse. They’re uncomfortable, but this one has the best light above it and the best view of your next still life.

You open your art box and take out the new artist pastels. You’re moving from charcoal to pastels today, and you have not used color yet in class. You’re excited to get started. You run your finger across the crisp corners of the small pastel sticks. Sharp and unused will turn to dull but cherished.

Beauty has returned to your life, but you can call her Jackie. She inspects your canvas over your shoulder and makes suggestions on how to capture the light just right. Her eyes sparkle when she asks you to show your work to the class. You leave your portfolio bag in the cubby so you won’t feel like a kite the next time you come to class. She brings it out for the afternoon drawing class and uses your drawings as examples for the other students to follow.

What they don’t tell you about being creative is the constant push to do something “innovative.”

With every project, no matter how small, you find something to do that no one else is doing. It starts small. First, you’ll add a water splash to the ball bounce animation for that Animation I class.

“Hey, what are you doing?” your friend will ask you, while you’re sitting in the chronically cold Animation Lab in Shewmaker. You’ll show her. The shiny pink ball splashes on the endless ocean, slowly, gracefully. The tune of the Moonlight Sonata is the perfect pace for the animation, and the starlit sky the perfect backdrop. The water glistens in the moonlight, appearing only for a moment, then vanishing back into the ocean from which it came.

“Wow, Sarah, that’s really good.” Her words ooze with sarcasm.

Then the day comes when you turn it in for grading and critiques. Everyone in the class will see it and have a chance to say something about it. Since both your first and last names are alphabetically last among your friends, you will sit and wait your turn, agonizing over what they will say about the “finished” animation.

When the wait is over, and you are next, your professor will gush over it.

“When you go above and beyond what the project calls for—”

You and your classmates mark it on the calendar that this is the first time he has ever smiled in class. They will never forget that you’re the one who made him break the cold demeanor. Your friends will be mildly jealous, but they’ll get over it, you think. They will believe you’re his favorite. That part won’t go away. Years later, when he’s teaching the same class to a bunch of new freshmen, you’ll walk into the lab, and that same animation will be shown to them as an example to follow. And a new batch of jealous people will notice you.

These displays of innovation will escalate throughout your education ending your fifth year with Well, no one else is making a video game, so I guess I will. Even though you know nothing about programming a video game.

“Are you sure?” the same professor who gushed over your water splash animation will ask you. He will look you in the eye and give you a stern expression.

“Yes, I’m sure.”

“Okay,” will be his sing-song reply, with the same amount of uncertainty that you are feeling, “Get your team together.” By that he means, get someone who knows how to program a video game. He already knows you sure as hell can’t.

You feel invincible. Things in your life are finally good again. The displays of innovation are only stepping stones to greater things. Where do you go from here? Only up, you hope.

What they don’t tell you about being an artist is that anyone can do it. You just saw the light in a dark place before anyone else saw it. Why else would light bulbs be associated with ideas?