I never identified as being a Creative.
That pool of humanity always seemed slightly out of reach to me, totally separate from how I viewed myself during my first few decades of life.
I remember slotting artists as an intimidating and brooding set of people that, both avidly and dismissively, hung around professors, galleries, theatre departments and outdoor ashtrays.
Surely, the types that wore their creative selves on the outside, in hindsight, had crossed their own thresholds of self-actualization, but for me, I was most comfortable embracing the Lisa Birnbach’s Preppy Handbook tome as a guidebook to style, behavior, aspirations, suitable boyfriends and footwear.
So, steady and safe as all get out, I aimed my trajectory towards the study of English Literature and Art History, avidly studying the world as laid out in words.
Oh, but the pictures! And paintings, frescoes, posters, buildings, temples, cathedrals, domes, Palladian windows, colors, textures, stories.
Well, clearly my meandering lead me where I belonged all the time: swimming deeply, passionately, in the Arts.
Following my heart, those voices of the creatives that came before me reached through those vast textbooks, galleries, treks to Europe and film to pull me into their wonderful grasp.
Granted, my footwear might still lean towards my earliest proclivity of style, but my every thought, movement, inspiration and action lie firmly rooted in the land of the Creatives.
m wood pen 