I was on a walk with my dog, Filou, a few days ago, enjoying the outdoors and listening to Ophrah in conversation with Brené Brown, when Brené remarked that unused creativity is not benign, it metastasizes. I nearly stumbled over a pothole. That message hit home almost as fast as a donkey kick in the chest.
Let me tell you why.
About a week ago, I confessed to my husband, a commercial designer, that I didn’t love my job. It was a natural remark, I suppose, as I found myself exhausted and on the verge of depression after six months of relentless, soul-crushing work.
‘I sometimes complain about my job, but I’ve always loved what I do,’ he said. ‘Must be sad not to love your job,’ he added. ‘Though I am surprised. I thought you did.’
‘I never said I did.’
‘Then why do you work so hard?’
‘Because I have high expectations of myself,’ I said and, realising the sad truth of that statement, wondered how many times I did something I didn’t love for the sake of proving myself.
‘So if you don’t love your job, what job would you have loved?’
‘I always wanted to be a journalist,’ I uttered. It was the truth. Journalism was the path I once thought I would walk. I was the only one in my class who, when asked what I wanted to study, I didn’t hesitate saying that I wanted to be a journalist. Nobody else had a clue,
‘You literally never told me that. Why didn’t you became a journalist?’
Besides being surprised that in the twelve years my husband and I have been together I have never admitted it out-loud, I felt an immediate sense of grief. Why wasn’t I a journalist? How did I find myself a client service director in healthcare advertising instead? Why wasn’t I writing about the issues of the world, big and small, but writing contact reports and sitting in conference calls all day long?
Here’s why.
When my aunt went to sign me up to the University of Journalism in Bucharest in 1998, she found out that they had opened a new section: Communication Sciences. She decided that I had better chances at earning a living in PR or advertising than I did as a journalist. She convinced me to apply to the new section instead. Back in those days in Romania parents (and aunt and uncles alike) shared the opinion that, regardless of their progeny’s personal aspirations, it was their parental and moral duty to convince them to pursue a sensible career.
In Romania, to be admitted to the University an exam was required. (I think they still are but grades also play a role; they didn’t in my days, it was the exam or nothing). These exams were notoriously difficult. Many tried and failed and tried again. I succeeded at my first try. Not only that, I passed with the highest mark. That’s the kind of girl I am. I apply myself to everything I do. Now that I’d let myself be convinced that advertising was my meaning in life, I put every effort into it, and continued over the years, despite not liking agency life in the beginning.
Writer and continuous source of wisdom Elizabeth Gilbert said in an interview that she now makes decisions based on her body, rather than her mind. Looking back, I my body knew better.
Back at uni, I did an internship in an advertising agency and one at the national radio station. The two experiences couldn’t have been more different. I found agency life immediately fake and I didn’t like the people, feeling nauseous the moment I woke up in the morning. By comparison, I loved the atmosphere of camaraderie at the radio station, the spirited conversations, long lunches and chain-smoking culture. Maybe there was a bit too much smoking for my tastes but everything felt easy and fun.
I could have still chosen what I felt was right for me, but I was afraid. I was afraid that my aunt was right. That I would starve as a journalist and I didn’t come from money. I only afforded University because in Romania it was free and I had a scholarship, as well as my father’s pension to support my living in the capital during my studies. I now have almost twenty years of experience in marketing, advertising and PR under my belt, make good money and don’t love what I do. Somehow I feel the joke’s on me.
Unlike me, when my British husband decided he wanted to go to art school, he went to art school. Only kids with rich parents went to art school in Romania. Everybody knew there were no jobs waiting for them after the graduation. My husband didn’t come from money either but he was good at drawing and believed in himself enough to make his own decisions. And he’s been doing what he loves ever since.
No wonder I was feeling grief. But it was also liberating to admit the truth. That I took the wrong path. And I have survived all these years walking the wrong path only because I wrote. In my free time, with whatever neurons I had left, I wrote. But lately I had been too busy or too tired to write and, as the great Gustave Flaubert said, you must be ‘settled in your life… in order to be fierce in your work.’ But I didn’t stop to think that feeling depleted, demotivated and depressed wasn’t only because of work. My body was poisoned by unused creativity. My unused creativity was beginning to metastasize.
I started solving that problem by recommitting to what was important for me and clarifying my intentions: I wanted to work less and write more. I spoke to my manager about bringing someone else to share the workload with me. It hasn’t happened yet but, almost as if by magic, the onslaught of work slowed down. I wanted to write again but I was undecided between 5 or 6 projects and I didn’t know which one to pursue for submission to a writing festival. I asked for guidance. One morning, I saw something on the news relating to the subject of one of my projects. Guidance delivered.
Maybe wanting to be a journalist was just the more palatable version of writer. Maybe I’ll never know. But here’s a crazy thought. What if walking the wrong path was never wrong. What if, no matter the twists and turns of faith, we are always exactly where we need to be. Only one thing is crystal clear. Write I must.
