Weasel.

What role does past experience play in creative expression?  ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ A poem two decades in the making What role does past experience play in creative expression? ​ --------------------------------------------------------------- If you haven't yet, please do me a favor and hit the "follow" button over on [Spotify](). While I know this gesture may seem small, it goes a long way in helping my work get discovered by more beautiful souls like yourself. --------------------------------------------------------------- As a kid, my parents packed us up in their Honda Odyssey and drove us from Indiana to Québec. I suffered from horrible car sickness at the time and spent much of the two days trying not to hurl into an aluminum bowl my mother had packed for such purposes. We ate a lot of Kentucky Fried Chicken on the eighteen-hour drive to Québec. While that might sound like a peculiar choice, KFC remains palatable long after it has gone cold. If our hunger wasn't ravenous enough to conquer an entire bucket, we'd dump the rest of the bird into a gallon-size Ziploc and stick it in the portable cooler wedged between the two middle seats. Cold KFC is like cold pizza––or perhaps even a handjob––it certainly won't make your toes curl but it will get the job done. Quick digression: I was writing advertising for a client last week and I managed to work the term "edging" into the body copy. We were collectively entertained but ultimately decided it was off-brand. To this day, I'm astonished [brands pay me to write for them](=). But, that's neither here nor there. In the rare instances my car sickness subsided long enough for me to choke down a couple of drumsticks, I recall noticing the KFC tasting a great deal different the further North we drove. This could have been entirely in my head but I remember Toronto's KFC tasting nothing like Evansville's KFC. If I have nothing to do one day, I might purchase a bucket of KFC in Evansville board a plane, fly to Canada, purchase another bucket of KFC in Toronto and then compare the two, bite for bite. Eventually, we arrived in Saguenay, a town about two hours north of Québec City. Saguenay sits on Lac Saint-Jean, a lake of such tremendous size it is less a lake and more an ocean. When my mother told me it was a lake, I didn't believe her. I still have difficulty wrapping my mind around the fact that a lake can be so big you can't see to the other side. Quick digression: Entire naval wars have been fought on lakes. The Battle of Put-in-Bay––where the U.S. captured six vessels from the British Royal Navy––took place on Lake Erie. Furthermore, there are two ships from the War of 1812, the Hamilton and the Scrouge, that are collecting kelp 90 meters beneath the surface of Lake Ontario. But, that's neither here nor there. My mother was fluent in French at the time. Something I wasn't aware of until I watched her converse with her cousins and uncles and aunts. When she spoke in French she became a stranger to me. I would follow her around like a puppy, waiting for her to speak the language I so desperately wanted to understand. With time I befriended some boys on the beach. They didn't speak English––nor I French––and so we communicated in gestures. One of the boy's older sisters was bilingual and she would translate for us. She had freckles on her face that looked like the night sky absent of clouds. I developed a crush on her and became painfully shy. I treated her as if she were the sun. When she would speak to me, I avoided looking at her directly. One day I was playing pitch and catch with the boys on the beach beside Lac Saint-Jean when one of them threw the ball over my head. It slipped from my grasp, rolled and wound up sandwiched beneath their sister's backside and the sandy shore. She was crouching down, working on a sandcastle with her little sister and, somehow, wasn't aware she was sitting atop the ball. Because it was my responsibility to catch the ball, it was also my responsibility to retrieve it. I remember being scared to death to speak up. I left the ball where it was and ran to the other side of the beach. I had an uncle in Québec named Little John who wasn't little at all. He was a burly man with sloped shoulders like a groundhog and a stomach like a tick. In the mornings, we would all go have breakfast at a diner near the lake. Little John would order 8 slices of white toast smattered with so much butter it ran off the crust like syrup. He would devour the entire stack, rest his hands on his gut and then drink from his mug of black coffee. Little John was a hunter and a storyteller. I was obsessed with animals at the time––I still am––and I would ask him about the most ferocious animals he hunted in Canada. I was surprised when he said minks. Little John kept chickens. Little John loved his chickens. Minks also loved Little John's chickens. Because of this shared love of KFC, Little John and the minks were in a multi-decade-long feud. The minks would sneak into Little John's coop, break his chickens' necks, burrow a hole in them and then eat them from the inside out. When he'd venture into the coops in the morning, he would find no minks but a couple of very still chickens that would deflate when he touched them. I spent much of last year in a depression. What's strange about depression, is that it takes a while for your brain to develop the awareness that you are, in fact, depressed. What was most difficult about my depression, was feeling like I had to give the impression that I was doing well despite not doing well at all. Smiling had never been so painful. I'd liken the act to setting a pair of fish hooks in the corners of your mouth and giving them a good hard tug anytime you have to "show face". As the depression worsened, feeling left me the way feeling departs the body in the presence of cold. Towards the end of the fall––when the depression was at its worst and the feeling was non-existent––Little John's chickens surfaced once again in my mind. I then wrote a poem called [Funhouse](=). If you are struggling, I can promise you it will get better. I just can't promise you when. What I do know, is that for it to get better, you must have faith it will get better. When faith feels as slippery as smoke, it has always helped me to think back to a time when I was very happy and at peace: listening to my mother speak French with her cousins, playing pitch and catch along the shores of Lac Saint-Jean, watching Little John devour an entire loaf of bread while educating me on the hunting habits of minks, etc. I will exist in these places as long as I must, as I work the feeling back into my heart the way one would work the warmth back into the bones of one's hands after doing something laborious outside without gloves in the dead of winter. You will know the depression is subsiding when you begin to hurt again. This is the feeling returning. Pain is good. It means your heart is working again. Lastly––and on a far lighter note––I want to share some unsolicited advice on the creative process. Something we creatives tend to undervalue greatly is the role our life experiences play in our creative expression. We develop our originality and style not through simply honing our skills but by stepping away from the desk, canvas or studio and participating in the world. The stories, conversations and experiences we glean will be enough to sustain a lifetime of creative work. They just might take several seasons to bear fruit. Little John's chickens are weaseling their way into my poetry after two decades of hibernation. By [Cole Schafer](​ P.S. Listen to [Funhouse](=). --------------------------------------------------------------- Let the tigers through the door A memento to remind you to face your fears ​ A couple years ago, I wanted to create a memento that could serve as a constant reminder to myself that I can't truly live until I've faced the very thing that scares me most. What was birthed from this desire was an American-made, hand-forged brass coin as heavy and as dense as .45 caliber slug. Etched along its face is a 700 lb tiger-in-miniature and, along its back, a mantra... Let the tigers through the door. If you'd like one for yourself, they're available for sale on the other side of the black button down below. [FEAR NOT OR FEAR FOREVER.](=) --------------------------------------------------------------- Getting unstuck You escape creative block the way you would quicksand A creative vocation is like running barefoot through a field of mud. It's a hell of a lot of fun. But, if you run for long enough, you're bound to slip and get stuck. Your natural reaction to getting stuck is to do everything you possibly can to get unstuck. Usually, this looks something akin to you fighting and struggling and panicking and attempting to move as fast you were moving prior to getting stuck. You get unstuck from creative block the same way you get unstuck from quicksand: with small, thoughtful movements. These tiny, purposeful gestures create space for your limbs, allowing you to pull them free. Creativity functions in the same way. Small movements allow room for the creativity to open up, expand and set itself free. Next time you're stuck, try to create something small every day for a month: draw a single sketch, take a single picture, write a single sentence or brainstorm a single idea. As the days and the weeks pass, you will notice your creativity feeling less constrained. You will finally be able to breathe. [SLOW. STEADY. STILL.]( --------------------------------------------------------------- Hunter-gatherer The two very different ways creatives get their shit done ​ People tend to approach work in two very different ways. There is the hunter and the gatherer. ​ The hunter approaches their work like a bowman tracking an elk. All of her attention is focused on finding and killing the elk. She isn't thinking about anything else. She can't afford to. She isn't thinking about the squirrel or the pheasant or the bass she saw leap out of the lake. If she doesn't come home with the elk, she will starve. ​ The gatherer, on the other hand, spends his days turning over dozens of logs and stones to see what he might find. In the morning, his attention might be on the blackberry bush. In the afternoon, his attention might be on the patch of Morel mushrooms. In the evening, his attention might be on the wild onions sprouting beside the meadow. For the gatherer to prosper, his focus must be a little bit slippery, like water. ​ Which is approach is "best" depends entirely on your vocation. ​ If you're a novelist, you must work like a hunter. If you're a creative director––overseeing dozens of copywriters and art directors at once––you must work like a gatherer. [CREATE INTENTION(ALLY).](=) --------------------------------------------------------------- [[linkedin]​]() ​ [Update your email preferences]( or unsubscribe [here](​ © 2024 The Process 113 Cherry St #92768, Seattle, WA 98104-2205