It has been quite some time since I’ve written on my blog. So here is one of the updates I have for you, dear reader. I got a black and white tuxedo cat named Ruby. I admit I am a fan of her, even though she has a habit of trying to sit on my keyboard when I write. 

Ruby is watching me now, very intently, her eyes darting back and forth as my hands fly across the keys. I imagine Ruby’s cat-like confusion; what on earth could I be doing? The answer is, I don’t know. I guess I’m sending things into the void.

The void is what consumes the work of little artists and creatives like me. Above all else, the void eats. You can be sure it will devour what you make without offering a compliment to the chef. There is no feedback in the void. No way of discerning if that thing you just painted was a masterpiece or if that melody you wrote is as beautiful as it sounds when you hum it to yourself. In short, it’s where things go when they have no where else to go.

The void has read every tentative screenplay, heard every painstaking revision of a punchline, tasted every inspired recipe. Are you as curious as I am about what work is floating out there? Somewhere there is a sentence I’ve never heard that would split me in two, and I would be better for it. 

It’s so easy to make your work meaningless when you don’t have a rapt audience. I am excellent at it. I have a terrible habit of asking, “But who is watching?” whenever I share something creative. “You’re probably annoying,” and “What’s the point?” I say, and other such obvious and self-deprecating things. Little makers and creatives understand. Like me, you hold a mirror to your stuff and only see what it’s not. 

But the gag is that having an audience doesn’t fix that feeling. The critic in all our heads doesn’t care if there’s a full or empty house. (This critic is crafty and frighteningly specific about how we’re fucking up, always.) My critic will say anything for attention. I remind myself of this often.

So. What do we do? 

With or without an audience, the void exists. It’s over my shoulder now; what if these words are devoured whole? What if no one cares? It’s possible. Likely, even. But there is something stubborn in me that trudges on. Because here is the answer to the question of the void: it’s not a graveyard. Maybe it’s the opposite. Maybe inside this void is a brilliant kaleidoscope of ideas and art that is very much alive. What if the worst that could happen is that we’re making something beautiful? 

Reader, this is a long and twisty way of saying that these words could only be helpful to me, and that’s okay. You might hate this because it’s too meta. And honestly, that’s like, an incredibly fair critique. But despite the void or the critic in my head, my creative tendencies are better out than in. So are yours. We owe this much to ourselves. 

And even when I think no one is listening, the void is there with its ear pressed against the door, waiting for the moment I choose to let go.

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In the vein of sharing work, here’s a poem I wrote a while ago that has been sitting around my google drive.

Talking To Myself

your life unfolds 

in a thousand origamied shapes

no two edges estranged from another

holographic cross streets,

wave at the apparition of this day

that should not leak through but does 

evolution is little more than a story told in limbs

how delicious it is to be punched in the gut now and again

honeyed rum buzzing in a glass

we left the magma inside you 

Unflinching 

blessed are those who can’t look away

that itch in your palm 

Dear one, 

you couldn’t break the yolk if you tried