My Project Me

The constant battle of finding my creative identity

I’ve always thought of myself as creative. Someone that is loosely based, and walks on the unbeaten paths. I put a little more style in the way that I dot my I’s and cross my T’s, yet, I constantly seem to hit roadblocks. I’m no Jon Bellion when it comes to creativity, I can’t see a story in my head, and simply punch the words into a page to make it a bestselling composition. Rather, I struggle to find the pieces that make my writing worthy. It comes in bits and pieces, and on rare occasions, I happen to wow myself, maybe just a little.

I set extremely high expectations for myself, and thus I frequently feel as though I’m not up to par. More often than not, I’m the flag-waver, and my subconscious mind is the spontaneous driver waiting for his opportunity to soar down the tarmac; what I mean, is: I trip myself out.

I am afraid to call myself a writer. I refrain from titling myself, for a few reasons. I am afraid to call myself a baseball player, because I don’t always see my name in the starting lineup. I’m afraid to call myself a musician, because my vocal range is limited, and I’m mediocre in comparison to my counterparts. My professionalism is hardly professional.

But it’s not just because I feel as though I’m not good enough. I don’t want to feel constricted beneath a title that I may want to expand underneath.

We live in an era where the belief is that you must specialize in one area, although that was never me. As a kid, I spent a lot of time skateboarding and biking, but I also spent just as much time out on the baseball field running drills alongside my teamates. I spent a lot of time replaying Van Halen CD’s until I perfected the guitar riffs on my dad’s Nylon-String Takamine. I spent a lot of time sitting on my chimney reading Harry Potter, and in the backyard pretending I was an explorer, or an archaeologist, or a zookeeper, or a hunter.

So, my love for many different activities grew, and so did I. I grew as a ballplayer, and eventually became the starting catcher for many of the teams I played on. I grew as a skateboarder, and now charge huge hills all over the Bay Area as a downhill longboarder. I grew as a musician, and regularly hear songs on the radio, and reiterate them on my guitar. I grew as an explorer, and I find myself deep in the woods, and along the great Pacific Coast with my friends. I grew as a reader, and eventually would find my own knack at creating stories of my own.

The cliche reiterated by so many success stories, so many oscar speeches, and so many documentaries is a simple truth: It’s a belief. Success is a belief. Every activity I’ve grown with has taught me a different element of success. Skateboarding has taught me fear. Making a drop, hitting a corner, pushing your comfort zones, extending your speeds, all are fear. Confidence is the bridge that protects us from fear, but those who do not hold enough confidence in themselves fall into the abyss. In skateboarding, that abyss is a lot of pain. Baseball has taught me to work. Nothing is ever granted to any player. Those who win in baseball, have earned and siezed their opportunities. Music has taught me to get lost in passion. To feel every beat, to hear every note, and every element, and use that euphoria to funnel it into creative streams of my own. Exploring has taught me to make the best out of what you have. Those who seize the day, and use their curious natures to drive themselves see the world through unfiltered lenses. Reading has taught me how to be a writer, and being a writer has taught me how to form a medium between my creative mind and the world around me.

My fear is irrelevant. It’s like being afraid of heights while belted to a roller coaster. Or being afraid of the ocean when I know I can swim. It’s the constant doubts, the comparisons, the lack of confidence, that drag me beneath the waves.

So when I ask myself, “will I ever be someone?” My answer is simple:

When wasn’t I anyone?