The Dichotomy of the (Passionate) Committed Artist

Channeling Wild Artistic Impulses and the Dark Side of Mastery

It takes everything in a person to create something. Everything. Only so much can be taught about any particular craft. There’s no roadmap; you give your everything for most times nothing in return. What is on the other side of creation we wonder? Most don’t stick to it long enough to find out.  The only true gauge of one’s progress to the illusory goal of completion is the unwavering commitment to complete something. Accomplishments, accolades, performances, support – all of these things can mislead the truth of where your work stands. Writers write, dancers dance, filmmakers make films. Anything else is purely performative and doesn’t show the true nature of one’s abilities, which should function from the internal more than the external. Commitment is one of the most important ingredients for any artist that ever said they were passionate about their form – whether or not the art will die when passion inevitably fades away. Being the committed artist is no fool’s game.

Commitment is often romanticized in a way that draws from a scene like the training montage in Rocky. You commit, then you’ll see your results once it’s done. It is sometimes like this, but the process doesn’t end when you see results. One must not become hasty, and fray to something else.

Before I became committed once again to the beautiful craft of fiction writing and essaying, I followed every whim I desired, every idea I wanted to do in different crafts: whether it be dance, film, or writing. I wanted to do it all. And this almost destroyed every story I wanted to tell, every creation that was born inside of me. So when I made the intention to commit to writing, and remember that notion almost constantly, my relationship to writing grew more exciting, but only for a little while. 

More than anything, I craved my more youthful artistic integrity, the simple idea that writing creatively could just be about the writing. Not money, not jobs, nor acceptance from the society we claim. It was the place I wanted to cultivate from, to become a woman who could build magic into her writing, and create everything I ever wanted. All that passion while I was in school and collaborating more heavily warped my idea, though, of what was in store for that desire to write in full capacity. There is a difference between writing when you’re inspired and writing everyday, and the writing everyday and its effects are what scared me and compelled me all at the same time. 

My writing grew exponentially in ways I never thought it could, incorporating strange inspirations from art beyond books – pulling from music, paintings, my city, my life, my romances and my heart, spirituality, the phenomenal sex, history in things in which I’m passionate about, conspiracy, responses to stories that came before me of my own literary inspirations in their own lives – so many things I cannot possibly list them all here. But so many things infused into my writing, and made it more whole. Despite the low periods of creation, that growth and the strange inspirations were the highs. 

And yes, writing creatively was beautiful, but it wasn’t perfect. When I became attached to the story and the impulse to create something, I often found myself getting frustrated when the output didn’t match my vision, when my skills in the physical realm just couldn’t translate what I deeply wanted to create. 

“Hack,” I would say, throwing away constant notes, hating every word I would write. It started off so sweet too; writing everyday was alluring at first. I wrote so many words I lost count, and it was loving. But when I got to a point where I couldn’t stand my words, I realized that was the phase I needed to get past to determine if I was truly committed or not. And eventually, I converted that criticism into my work into something neutral. Could I do something with this information, or not? 

Once I got past the idea that my words needed to be perfect, I was faced with a new monster: clarity. Clarity that the words I’ll write are equal to the amount of work and writing I do everyday, nothing more. Clarity that once any particular story was finished, it would have to be edited and reviewed constantly – to make the writing look like it was easy, and by that point, you’ll see whether you’re any “good” or not. (In your own mind that is, a factor that should reign supreme.) And if you’re not, you have to shelve it and start again. And that cracks the heart over and over each time, and your decision to get back into the cycle and do it again fills in those gaps. 

No longer a “hack,” but forced to look at my work for what it was. Seeing some of the things I was writing made me learn profound insights I’m not sure I would’ve gotten otherwise. It was the routine of writing daily that was the final ending in many ways of these ego-driven responses to creation. And writing creatively uninhibited. Something about the wild impulses [of wanting to do everything] and following them as freely as I once did made a part of me anxious; I couldn’t tell you why. But the routine, the sometimes obsession – forming away from the impulse writing, only writing when inspired – stabilized me. Routine stops logical thinking when creating, going deeper into more creative, hypnotic states. That can make artists highly spiritual at times. 

My mind no longer thought about conscious things like where you sit or what to do or even making the decision to write – it became ingrained, into habit. That ascending to the unconscious is where the magic of a grounded thing like commitment transforms into a more fluid form of creativity. One that can be tapped into with enough dedication, the top of the mountain that you can stay if you’re willing to climb. Where you see everything. 

Writing was never meant to be the most important thing in my life, but the longer I committed, the more obsessed I became. Peeling every layer, discovering new writing techniques, finding my “soul story” deep inside of me. It drove me to want to study and write and create and daydream as much as possible. I felt like I was tapping into gold; it was internal and intimate. 

Following those stories in my art began to reflect themes, insights, and strange patterns over and over, and that repetition taught me things, how to see the bigger picture, and to reform my empathy from a coldened heart from loving too hard and too sweetly. The world wasn’t built for such open things all the time. But in writing, I discovered this “soul story,”and what a profound experience it turned out to be. Reinforcement of self and healthy development of ego, philosophies, values, empathy, worldly expansion, and so much more. It was all personal and unique, yet collective, like I wasn’t the only person experiencing such things. And the most profound experience: understanding, in things I can’t explain vividly in this one post.

The soul story that reflected my spiritual life through fiction – channeled directly from something beyond my physical. Most art forms are like this, where there’s a point after you’ve become intermediate that you simply must let go, over the threshold, to a place in artistry that can’t be taught. That is the scariest part of commitment: there’ll be a point where you have the final word, and you must have conviction in your artistic choices. Writing from these deep places allows for this type of expansion, something beyond the words I could use to describe it.

We have our own story, deep inside, reflecting one another and ourselves in some form of collective consciousness. Take a look around, you may already be where you seek, already what you want to be. See that in others, as well as yourself, and you’ll never bore yourself with egocentrism ever again. It is, or it isn’t – this is what your writing , your art, becomes.

But this isn’t a beautiful linear experience of overcoming demons and ego, and transcending to a more intimate, spiritual artistic experience. No, it’s in waves. The higher highs, but the lowest lows. There was a bitter resentment that began to fill my throat and space some days when I had to slug to the writing chair, or edit a story, or the other array of activities that allowed me to better myself as the type of writer I said I wanted to be. 

It hurts some days to not be in the phase where I could dance as long as I wanted, then move to a screenplay, then a photoshoot, then a collaboration on a film. Those artistic whims at first excited me, and I still yearn for them. But with commitment comes focus, and to do everything else only on stolen time was fine, but no more than that. Hence, the routine.

Other days, though, I tire of writing because it takes away all of those beautiful things. I hate it for being so difficult some days, difficult because I can’t settle for being mediocre, because I see what these stories could be. And for this, writing drives me crazy, but always lets me breathe when it’s done. You see, writing is a part of how my soul communicates in this life; it’s how I shine. I gave up everything else so I could embody the person deep inside more than the ego or identity as “the artist.”  

“Are you serious or are you curious?” 

I was curious about many things when it came to artistic expression; I still am. Always will be; it probably won’t change. But that curiosity combined with a seriousness for one thing gave me tools that I never had before as a writer. Dance taught me how to bend words to my own rhythm, using music and structure and positions to take up space with my writing, to make every word count. To not write with a destination in mind; to feel it. Film taught me how to see more clearly, and how to bring visuals into writing without sounding like a screenplay [ironically]. There are many things we all love that could help us, but we can not do it all. I don’t know who said we could. 

You have to ask yourself the fundamental question: are you serious, or are you curious? 

Writing as a woman who had to take care of her own impulses, whims, and desires taught me how to be bold, unapologetic. The other art forms taught me how to be free and sexy – and loud and happy. The artistic impulses and whims are what originally made creating so exciting, but this place is very unreliable. 

Truthfully, deep down, I just wanted something for me – that artistic integrity thing again – that I could love and not have to change, create from what wasn’t seen: visions in my head that played over and over when certain songs came on or when I smelled incense, when I meditated in June when the weather was perfect. Why couldn’t I have that? It was because I knew now that it wasn’t always this inspired state all the time, filling my body with euphoria. It’s grueling, it’s taxing and tiring, and it wears you down and the only solution is to pick yourself back up lest you’re ready to be eaten by life. Art is unforgiving; creation is thoughtless, and it’ll give nothing back to you. You must take it.  

So if one is so dispassionate, and I could feel this way so deeply some days, it would seem counterintuitive to keep going. If you hate it some days, you should stop – this is a common gut reaction. Hate is that feeling in the moment but not everything. With hate becomes love, because I only hate it because I love it. Hate it because creation’s darkness excites me. How could I ever expect to finish this story beating in my blood if I kept moving from one form to the next, unable to channel it effectively? Commitment, even through these lows, is what leads to mastery, transformation, and hidden greatness and talent. Your work is like soil; it must be nurtured or it’ll shrivel up and die. 

It’s not about loving something, it’s about doing it. And doing it even when you wonder why you’re doing it, because you know your intention and commitment is stronger than a temporary feeling, and you’ve accepted it as part of the deal to greatness. It’s that mastery that feels much more potent and worth it when placed next to every setback and failed writing attempts. I had to make a choice to be a writer; it was an artistic necessity. 

What you must give up for that bold choice of saying what and who you’re going to be is your sanity, temporarily. The price is sacrifice. So create wildly, freely, but remember the hidden wonders of your gifts can only be found through nurturing one form, through commitment. 

“One can do anything, but not everything.”

Cover photo by Vadim Sadovski on Unsplash.