Creativity Is Not A Choice
I was 38 years old when I came out of the proverbial closet. I’ll save exploring the depths of that denial for another post and simply say that dropping years of emotional baggage had a dramatic effect on my life. Despite the pain of divorce, confused kids, and a sad little bachelor apartment situated well outside my comfort zone, coming to terms with being gay was exhilarating and liberating in more ways than I imagined.
Yet in the midst of all this flag-waving self-discovery, as much as my life was expanding, I seemed to be losing a little something, too. My creative voice.
As a writer in the highly competitive entertainment marketing industry (movie trailers and posters and whatnot), my “edge” had always distinguished me. I built a career on a subtly aggro, quietly subversive approach to advertising copywriting. Snark was my stock in trade.
So it came as a great surprise that within a few months into my self-realized life, my writing seemed to be getting, uh, nicer. Irony lost its punch. Sarcasm wasn’t as fun. I couldn’t be snide if I tried.
This was all the more puzzling given my new identity. I mean, weren’t we gays supposed to be sassy and sardonic? I was never destined to be a snap-happy shade-throwing queen, but wasn’t having a little attitude part of the deal? Maybe I wasn’t doing it right. Here I was at the epicenter of Hollywood and homosexuality, and my edge was duller than the cutlery I got in the divorce.
What I came to realize is that after decades of channeling misplaced emotions into my writing, I suddenly found myself with no rage to subvert. It became clear that until that point my writing voice was more a mechanism of defense than an expression of my truest personality. Now, I was defenseless. I had nothing to hide and no reason to lash out.
But I still had a lot to say. More than ever, in fact.
Truth was, my voice wasn’t lost. It was simply changing. Not unlike experiencing second puberty, the transformation was as surprising as it was wonderous. And this time around, freed from the strain of repressing my simmering instincts, my voice possessed a new quality altogether; authenticity.
These days, there may be less of an edge in my writing, but there’s more compassion. The snarkier notes have been muted by deep and lasting gratitude. And that low, defensive growl has been drowned out by the undeniable ring of genuine pride.
