Creativity: 6 vital lessons I learned in 2009

1. My path isn't entirely up to me

I can't count how many times I've heard this question "So, when are you gonna be famous?" This question is asked with a what-the-hell-are-you-waiting-for-you-should-be-putting-your-eggs-in-the-getting-famous-basket-now tone of voice. (Mostly from my non-musical friends. Musical friends usually know better!) As if being famous or making it big is the only thing this journey is about. As if the way the world receives my particular music is up to me. As if the path for me is up to me. With the popular Law of Attraction and The Secret type literature out these days, it's tempting to attach to a particular material outcome and go at it full force, without asking the Universe "Where do you want me? Where is my place?" I do believe I have a calling. And I don't believe it's to be a household name, although I have to be open to that in order to truly live what I am saying here. What IS up to me is to choose to follow the particular path I am authentically called to or choose to stubbornly forge a different path based on my ego. I personally believe that these questions need to be asked over and over. The path is continually shifting. Forget about the outcome and where you want to be in the future (if you can't forget it, at least just hold it loosely. LOOSELY) Leave room for your true path to be revealed and re-revealed on a regular basis.


2. Nobody cares: The world doesn't revolve around my music!

This might sound really pessimistic, but really, no one cares about my art, about my music, about what I do with my creativity. When I finally admitted this and held it in my deepest heart, I breathed a huge sigh of relief. Once I realized this, I could let go of wasted energy and time trying to get my friends, my family, my acquaintances, and even perfect strangers to like me and to be my fans. Seriously, if no one cares (and I can assure you, they don't. They might like you, but they don't give a flying hoot about how you write a song, or how many shows you play in a month) then how are you going to proceed? What kind of art are you going to make if no one cares? If you don't have to spend the time getting them to care after you've made the art? Try it! It's freeing. None of this is to say that your art might not touch someone, or some thousands of ones. But even if it does (and that surely is a beautiful thing when it does), their worlds still don't revolve around you or your music.

3. Embrace the Mundane! Your life isn't that cool.

I thought I was so special when I first started writing songs. I mean, not everyone has that talent! The truth is, I am special, and I'm not. But back when I thought I really was the shit, when I realized I was going to live an artist's life, I made a terrible mistake. I let my ego tell me I was exempt from the boring things in life, the mundane things like working to pay the bills, living in a ghetto town, hanging out with non-artist friends etc . This thinking got me nowhere but lazy, self-centered, alone and swimming in credit card debt. The truth is, my songwriting and creativity depends on these mundane things. I can't write songs or focus on my music 24/7. God, sometimes I need to watch a freaking movie, laugh, go shopping, or clean my bathroom for crying out loud! Every day, I ask myself if I got enough of the mundane in. Mundane and creativity are different sides of the same coin. Can't have one without the other.

4. Be a meaningful specific rather than a wandering generality.

When I first started out on this musical path, I wanted everyone to know about me. I took an approach similar to the dreadful (and dreaded) Multi Level Marketing approach, which is basically to bombard everyone (especially friends, family, and co-workers) with your life-changing product whether they are into it or not. I'm not a fan of MLM's. Nor am I a fan of musicians who try to get everyone to like them. It's quality over quantity here. Why play a show for 1000 people who are not into your kind of music instead of playing a show for 20 people who ARE into your kind of music? It's pretty obvious to me. Be willing to get specific with where you fit, what kinds of shows you do, and what kinds of people you appeal to. Once you do, you effectively streamline your efforts and energy. So, be willing to ask the hard questions if you want to move forward: what kinds of people are not drawn to my music? Who is? What am I really trying to do and say with my music? Ask these questions and live up to the answers! This leads right into the next one. . .

5. Just because I could, doesn't mean I should.

I've learned that if I want to burn out fast, I should say yes to every show, write every song I have an idea for, drive to Salt Lake and Park City to see every national touring act coming through. . . etc. I think you get the point. If you want to be a meaningful specific, make yourself specific. Moving forward has more to do with what you say "no" to than what you say "yes" to. Chew on that.

6. Without honest, cringe-inducing feedback, I will be forever be circling in my own pile of shit.

I want to be a good songwriter. I obviously have a knack for writing songs. Here's the thing. . . I can't be a good songwriter all on my own. I need help. My judgment can be terribly off sometimes. Trying to write a song without trusted feedback can be like trying to give yourself a back massage. I have a couple people who I trust with my life. I trust them with my life because I know they will tell me the God-honest truth no matter how bad it hurts. Sometimes I just can't see outside of my own skin. I need their eyes and ears. My family, fans, and most of my friends will tell me they like any song I write, and they probably do. However, these couple of people I trust will tell me when the song doesn't work, because they truly care about me and they want me to grow. These kinds of people are indispensable and hard to come by. I suggest finding a person who will be completely and compassionately honest with you. I suggest doing the same in return.

Journey on and don't ever forget why you started making music in the first place.

When I accidentally wrote my first song 3 years ago and experienced the fiery rush of creativity flowing through my veins, I thought this is what it feels like to be free. A few moments later (it might have been 2 days, or 2 minutes later, I can't remember) I decided I wanted to start my own business centered around the creative rush I was feeling. I instantly knew that the business name was Freedom Song Productions, even though I didn't know exactly what the business was going to be. I knew I wanted to be creatively free and help others do the same. Yes. It's been 3 years since then, and I'm still a firm believer in doing what sets your soul free.

I met another believer the other night. Another free soul. Here's the scenario: I'm finishing up a waitressing shift (yes, waitressing can be creative play too) when this 20-something guy comes traipsing in the restaurant and plants himself at the bar where I'm counting my money. I'm a little irritated at first, not wanting to be bothered with another customer right before closing. But, I look up and instantly know that this guy isn't just “another” customer.

He politely asks, “I'm just wondering if there's any way I can get a tall cup of water to go. Just passing through, can really use a drink.”

Even though my irritation has settled a bit by his calm manner, I'm still a little leery (and a bit lazy), so I summon my coworker to get a water for this guy. His unbuttoned shirt, handkerchief around his neck, scraggly hair, and sun-burned skin spell transit louder than the whistle of the train he's probably planning to hop in the morning.

“So, you're not from around here, huh?” I ask.

“Nope,” he says, “originally from Michigan, but I've been train-hopping and hitch-hikin' for the past 3 years.”

So, I'm right. A train-hopping transit! Part of me wants to get him his water as fast as I can and hurry him on his little transit way. But there's something intriguing about this homeless guy who, in my opinion, smiles too much for his current circumstances and who seems awfully friendly for someone who probably hasn't had a real meal in a week or so.

“Nice to meet you, McCall,” he says, looking at my name tag, “I'm Luke.”

“Cool, uh, here's your water.”

“Thanks.”

There's that disarming smile of his again. I think he should leave now, but he just keeps talking. He tells me he likes my name (always a point of conversation) and I explain for the umpteenth time that no, it's not a nickname. It's my given name, and no, my mom wasn't smoking anything illegal when she gave it to me.

“It's a super star name,” he says. Now he's on to something. “Like you should have your own square on a sidewalk with your handprints and everything.” He's shaping up to be a pretty sensible guy!

I laugh, “I just might, someday.” I ask him why he does what he does—hopping trains, always wondering where his next meal's coming from, not having an address etc.

He says “Simple, to be free,” and shows me his tattoo—F-R-E-E across his right-hand fingers. One letter for each knuckle.

I believe him, and suddenly I don't want him to leave. I believe that he knows what it feels like to be free. I urgently want to tell him that I know what it feels like too, that even though I've been living in the same town for the past 9 years and my routine doesn't change much from day to day, I feel free too. But I don't want to sound cheesy or trite.

The look on my face must tell him something because he says, “You understand. Not everyone understands. They think I'm a waste, a pile of shit, a nobody. They won't give me the time of day. But you know what I do with those people? I just send them on their way and love them. I gotta love them. Even from a distance. They are my brothers and sisters, ya know.”

Ah, that's how he knows what it's like to be free. Because he knows how to love. He doesn't feed resentments. That's why he seems so light. That's where the smile comes from. He is free.

He says he has to get on his way, but can he have a hug? I have no qualms. I hug him. It's a sweet hug, and I feel some things from his heart that I would like to pull into mine and keep there forever.

He leaves saying, “Thank you. I'm loving you, sister.”

“You too,” I say. And I mean it.

I go back to work and ignore any snickers or grins that my co-workers send me. I don't care. I feel free. Love=freedom. I don't need to sell everything I own and start hopping trains like Luke does in order to be free. And he doesn't have his own apartment, own 13 pairs of shoes, or buy a $2000 guitar and write songs to be free. The circumstances don't matter. The heart does. Thank you, Luke, for showing me, for reminding me what it means to be F-R-E-E.

Now, I want to know: What is freedom to you? What sets your soul free? I'm open for discussion.

Last weekend I went to a Folk Concert in a bar. Oxymoron? You would think. But there I was, along with 75 (ish) other folk music lovers, most of whom were older than me by at least 20 years, basking in the folk realm of acoustic songs, stories, sing-a-longs, and plenty of laughter to boot. I realize I was born all out of context—the “wrong” generation, if you must say. But, I've made peace with that. I have no problem spending my weekend night drinking water in a bar listening to Folk music. And by “night” I mean 6:30-9:00pm, which is late enough for all us “folkies” or should I say “fogies?” Other people my age were just gearing up for the night, smoking cigarettes and shooting the breeze outside the bar, waiting for us folky folks to finish up our music and get the hell out of there so they could pack themselves in like sardines and listen to some rock band pound their ears to bits while getting buzzed until 2:00am. But, back to the issue at hand. There I was, sitting in a bar, listening to my favorite singer-songwriters perform. It was very odd to be in a bar and look around to see everyone listening intently to the singer's words, smiling, clapping, and laughing in all the right places. Folk audiences are so polite. No pool-playing going on in the background. No talking while the singer is singing. No hanging out in the corners making out, or dousing yourself with perfume and refreshing your make-up in the bathroom with the girls every 5 minutes, or flirting with the bartenders. No. Folk people know the rules. They come out for the music. Dressed up or not. Sandals or high-heels. No one cares what you wear to a folk concert. You don't have impress. Come to think of it, the impressive thing is wearing no makeup, drinking out of a Klean Kanteen instead of those plastic water bottles that ruin the environment and give you breast cancer, wearing earth-colored clothes, and letting your hair do its natural thing. Now, I realize that there is little to no sex appeal in being a folk musician as opposed to a rock star. But, for me, it all boils down to a few things: I'm a sucker for the attention of a sober audience. An audience who wants to listen to my original songs instead of all the cool covers I can do. An audience who wants to feel and to be moved by the music. An audience who will sing along with catchy choruses, drink their light beers, cokes, and waters, and leave sober and early enough to get to bed by 10:30pm. That's the dream, folks. Like it or not, I'm on my way to folk stardom with all it's non-sexual, early night, intimately-quiet-concert appeal. :)

I get funny ideas sometimes. Silly notions in my head. Unfortunately I act on these notions from time to time. The latest? I decide it would be a good idea to audition to sing the National Anthem for one of the Utah Jazz's home games this season. Afterall, I'm a huge Jazz fan, and I'm a singer. I'm the perfect candidate, right? Friday morning while most people are sitting in offices making money at real jobs, I wait my turn at the Energy Solutions Arena to sing my anthem for the judges, which is a little-bit American Idol-ish, I have to admit. I'm number 82. I try to tune out the other terrible singers going before me who obviously have no chance of making it (what were they thinking??) by fantasizing about the night I will sing the National Anthem for the Jazz game. Standing on the same floor as Boozer and Kyle Korver, (Omg!!!!!) I will for sure have to wear high heels so I am tall enough to look them in the eye and somehow catch their attention to hand one of them a secret note that will say "Dear Carlos and Kyle, I want to have your babies. Both of you. Meet me after the game." I'm in the middle of this daydream when a fellow auditioner comes up to me and says, "Excuse me, you look familiar. Are you McCall Erickson?" "Why yes, I am," I reply. "Don't you have a show tonight?" he continues. "I saw your picture in City Weekly." "Yeah, that's me," I say. Turns out he's a local musician as well. He's number 83, auditioning right after me. I'm pretty sure his reasons for wanting to sing the National Anthem at a Jazz game are much different than mine, so I keep my fantasy to myself. Suddenly, a wave of panic hits me. I realize I haven't rehearsed the National Anthem, and I'm not really sure I can sing it. I understand this is a little late in the game for me to realize this. Hence, the "silly notions." Too late. My number is being called. It's my turn to sing. In a panic I turn to my new friend, Number 83 and say, "I don't know if I can really sing the National Anthem or not, but please still come to my show tonight. Please." I take my turn at the mic in front of the unamused, unimpressed judges. Turns out I can't sing the National Anthem afterall. I bombed! Utter humiliation. But I'm a singer! This is what I do. Where's my guitar? I swear I'll knock you out of your pants with a Johnny Cash cover. . .or maybe, maybe you want to hear some Bob Dylan. I can do Dylan. Come on, give me a chance, judges!! Too late. Number 83 is being called to sing. He's calm, cool ,and collected. I wait for him to finish his audition, and we walk out to our cars together. I tell him he did a great job and he smiles. "So," he says nonchalantly, "uh, what's your day job?" Ah shit, now what do I say? Tell him the truth, a voice in my head says. "I'm a singer. This is what I do," I sheepishly reply. "So, are you gonna come to my show tonight or what?" Number 83 replies, "Perhaps. It was nice to meet you, McCall." He smiles, gets in his car, and drives off to his real job--he's an aerospace engineer.