Resurrecting The Dead Artists

Remember when you used to get into a dark room and write poetry late into the night, until your eyes felt like candle wax and sandpaper? Remember when you used to find that spot on campus where the acoustics were just right, and proceeded to sing your lungs out when no one was looking? Remember the feel of the paintbrush in your hand, or the things you could make your body do with the right kind of shoes and the right kind of floor?

Remember the feeling of raw creation like a surge of ocean current in that secret room right behind your sternum, beneath your lungs, somewhere left of your fast-beating heart?

We never stop being artists. We just stop doing art. That creative spark was divine — entrusted to you for a reason. Sure, sometimes we have to walk away from it. Sometimes for years. I used to camp out at the computer lab on campus for six hours at a time, dreaming awake, creating worlds of poetry and fiction for six hours at a stretch. I’d forget to eat. I’d forget anyone was around. I’d forget I was on earth.

Fast forward to marrying the love of my life. Full time job and gnarly bills to pay. Children who laugh and cuddle and scream and demand. The matchless joy of fatherhood with its undeniable cost. I no longer have six hour stretches. Man, I don’t have six minute stretches. And that poet kind of felt like he died inside me. Like maybe I would never get to see him again, even if I wanted to.

But a few years ago — due to a series of glorious events that I won’t go into now, I realized that my poet hadn’t actually died. He was just biding his time, waiting for me to give him a call — even a brief one. I dialed the number and found him eager to connect. And surprisingly gracious at being interrupted 30-40 times per minute by my kids.

We hang out frequently now. Not like we used to — and this acknowledgment was essential. I don’t have six hours to give him, and he’s good with that. We’re homies again, and the joy to me is indescribable.

He wasn’t technically resurrected, because he wasn’t actually dead. Still, I like the resurrection imagery, so I’ll keep with that theme. I wonder how many are out there like me — creatives who think their inner artist has died. We are looking for you.

We know how it goes. We all get busy with our jobs and families, and forget the creative flame that brought so much joy and purpose to our lives. We can’t get things back to where they used to be, and it’s so painful that we chuck the whole endeavor. But I am now convinced of better things. There’s another way.

I want to resurrect a community of artists who maybe gave up on being artists because life choked it out of them. See, these are my people. I can’t wait to hear your songs, to see your brush strokes.

Your assignment? Do something creative today. It doesn't have to be extensive, it doesn't have to be in your artistic genre, and it doesn't have to be good. It could be a doodle, or one sentence of a poem, or a camera photo of something that strikes you a beautiful. Connect with your inner artist, even if it's just a brush of the fingertips. Then tell us what you did on Twitter or Instagram.