A conversation today with my friend Katie set the tone for a fantastic afternoon. We talked over coffee, went for a glass of prosecco and finally saw Dead Pool. Hysterically funny movie, in my opinion, and the perfect end to girl time.
During the course of our chat over coffee, we touched on the subject of creative souls. I always look forward to my time with Katie. She has an effect on the way I express my thoughts that few people have. I rarely search for the right words to explain my views or hypotheses, and I have little doubt that this can be attributed to our shared gift of writing.
My youngest son has told me, in no uncertain terms that he thinks I'm crazy. Not like batshit, but unconventional in my approach to most things in life. I expressed to Katie that I believe all true artists — creative souls can be defined as somewhat crazy. It is my belief that my unwillingness to let go of my sanity because I am still actively parenting a teenager is part of the reason I cannot fully immerse myself in writing. In order to produce compelling, or at the very least interesting work, the grip on reality and all social aspects have to be released completely. This is just not something I am able to do right now, so I write when I can and hope that someday I will be able to lose my fucking mind like every good writer should.
Funny as that may sound, I'm not even remotely kidding. It isn't as though the creative crazy is like crackpot nuts. There is a huge difference; I know because I have a fair bit of experience with both types. Crackpots aren't people I can tolerate for long. They are on a plain of existence I neither recognize nor wish to inhabit.
Creative people's madness is like a magnet to me. I've always found I surround myself with artists of all forms, and with good reason. I understand their language, their oddities and what it means to see things before they are ever physically manifested. We are on the same vibrational plain. We aren't unreasonable and difficult, ranting and raving lunatics who are all over the map. Well, most of us aren't, we just see different colors and approach life in ways many people wouldn't think to. Other people find us flighty or off-putting because they don't understand the way an idea blossoms and then takes over us until it is fully recognized and exorcized.
The beautiful thing about creative crazies is that no matter what their appearance may say to the non-creative world, they shine like diamonds in a sea of pebbles to their own kind. It's like the energy we emit acts as a homing beacon that only other creative people can hear. Certainly when there is a demonstration of talent and skill, non-creatives are privy to the sparkle an artist gives off, but only an artist can pick another artist out of a throng of people. Crazy knows crazy.
My own sons can see that I'm unlike most people they know, and regardless of what they might say to get a rise out of me, I believe they respect that I'm not altogether sane. After all, they have benefitted from an unconventional parent-child relationship, and each of them identifies and understands me because they are each creative — and therefore, crazy. I like that they are in the same world of questionable sanity and that we have that unspoken understanding that wouldn't be possible without creative genes. And I know that once my relationship morphs into less responsible caretaker and more into guiding parental figure, they will tolerate the full presence of my eccentricities.
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