Why so miserable, Brilliant?

I know I’m not the first to ask this question. Unlike a smattering of brilliant minds that have bestowed this earth with the creations formed of their enviable imaginations, I will not present to you an original idea here.

The question stirred in me today, not for the first time, when I observed my sudden abundance of writing inspiration; the same inspiration that has been conspicuously absent up in Thoughts HQ of late (I won’t deny there has been talk around the water cooler).

But in the last forty-eight hours, I have been compelled to write, in way I have not for quite some time. As my two most recent blogs might attest, I haven’t been in the best of moods – and I wonder if that is why?

On reflection, my most lavish, and quality, production of words came at a time in my life when I was the most depressed; I could not write enough; poetry and lyrics were like therapy; like journaling. And, respectively, the periods I have concerned myself with being ‘unable’ to write anything; or wanting for inspiration, were times I have been happiest.

Commonly admired and immortalised creatives including Miles Davies, Jim Morrison, Vincent Van Gough, Virginia Woolf, and Kurt Cobain (to name but a few) are known for their erraticism and self-harm, as much as they are known for their art.

Mark Moldre observes Phil Spector’s public plight in ‘Troubled Genius’, and the movies about Johnny Cash, John Nash, and the rest are common fare. It is a long list.

I have worked with people whom are great as artists, but, frankly, arseholes as people. Some people wear their creativity like a heavy coat – pulling out the clichéd tortured artist card at every opportunity – and if they are actually good enough at what they do, most people forgive them. I’m far too much of a cynic for that. In my mind, they’re just arseholes; and no amount of art is an excuse to be an arsehole. Sorry.

Others, such as the aforementioned Ms Woolf, used art as way of expressing and processing the inner turmoil they were predisposed with. A certain amount of genetic imbalance might be credited for some of the most celebrated works we are lucky enough to share today; Swedish researcher, Fredrik Ullén, of the Karolinska Institutet in Stockholm was quoted suggesting “Thinking outside the box might be facilitated by having a somewhat less intact box”. Well there’s a back-handed compliment for all you crazy genius’ out there!

So, why are the people who bring the most pleasure to the world, often the most miserable?

Whilst research on the relationship between creativity and mental illness shows a positive strong correlation, not every creative person need fear the label (just don’t be an arsehole), and I admit it is hard to control the ego in a world where celebrity is such a valuable currency; so people on the side-lines will allow people who do not have a genuine grievance with genetics or chemicals, to act the fool because “that’s what creatives do”. Fuck that. Pull your head in and be grateful you have a gift sans the burden of a mood disorder.

I am not aligning myself with these exceptional minds in any way – I have simply observed that my bad moods, generally mean good writing time. How does a creative person negotiate this? I think I made it pretty clear earlier that my patience for arseholes is minimal, so why would I strive to be one myself; and therefore, I would be amiss to pursue a path where I must ‘suffer for my art’. I don’t want to be a good, committed, prolific writer if the tradeoff is mental instability. Others might feel differently.

Tell me.

Honey, where did I leave my Ambition?

I have a lot going on; I am studying a Business degree full-time, and work in a busy role part-time; I have exercise commitments three times a week, a social life, a house to clean, dinners to cook, and blogs to write. The list goes on; plus there’s always ironing…

I have no reason to be bored; Yet, I am.

A terrible guilt washes over me for even saying it aloud; but, you know; the first step, and all that…

I have spent the last twelve months wandering aimlessly around my home, my casual and part-time jobs, my study, and my social life, wondering what the hell is wrong with me. When will it kick back in? The elusive “’It” is ambition; drive; appetite for life.

I know I sound like a spoiled first-world brat; and perhaps I am (the reason for writing these thoughts in a public forum is to invite conversation, so go on, tell me how it is), but is it just a ‘mood’, or has something inherent shifted in me that I will never get back?

Taking on the world
From since I can remember I was a bright, ambitious girl with big ideas and enough energy and enthusiasm to make them happen. I spent thirteen years pursuing a career as a Music Administrator – a job I fell over myself to obtain and achieve in; I had immense pride in my work and an incomparable care-factor – I sacrificed personal comforts, relationships, I’ll go as far as to say destiny, for the greater good of the job, the company, the art. I gave it everything I had.

A new chapter?
Last year, after many months of painstaking soul searching, garnished with a physical breakdown, I finally made the decision that the career I had been pursuing all these years, was no longer for me (read: I was no longer for it). I said my goodbyes and stepped out onto the sunny pavement feeling lighter than I had in years. This was the right decision for me. I was ready to start a new chapter in my professional life, and it was going to feel good.

After four months of applying for part-time work I started to get worried. I was scoring some temping work here and there, but times were tough, and I needed something stable. But on reflection I know I wasn’t getting permanent jobs because I didn’t really want them. I felt so emotionally affected from my ‘break-up’ with music that I just wanted the license to bury my head under a pillow and eat ice cream the other heartbroken women get.

I spent hours, days, weeks, months, thinking about what it was I actually wanted to do. “I like cooking – Maybe I could open a café? I like helping – maybe I can work in a charity? I like animals – maybe I should be a vet? I like writing – Maybe I should live in the mountains and start on a manuscript? I like getting in over my head – Maybe I could commit to saving the world? I am good at Administration – maybe I should just go and get a fucking job? But I don’t want just any fucking job – I want something I love – something I’m passionate about…I wish I could move to Byron Bay. I like yoga… ” And on it went.

Who am I?
I searched in every nook and cranny in my mind, and nowhere could I pin-point the next dream job to go bounding after with all the pathetic slobbering enthusiasm I had with my previous goal. I hit wall after wall. It wasn’t just that I couldn’t think of anything I wanted to do – after entering into music because I was passionate about music, and ending up hating it – I was scared that if I chose something I liked/loved to work in, I’d end up hating that too (a friend of mine once told me that I “over-think things” – what do you reckon?).

It became somwhat of a self-identitiy crisis, as I found myself suddenly missing something that used to make up a massive part of who I was. When asked socially what I do,I even caught myself saying(and later berrated myself), "Well I used to work in music bla bla bla...and now I'm...." It took me along time to figure out how to 're-answer' that question.

Priorities
I wrote myself a list of all the things I want in a job, and then I started to apply. I got the perfect-on-paper job. It is a truly wonderful job, with wonderful people. Yet, I am left wanting.

It’s now twelve months since I left my ambitious self behind and I’m still no closer to finding something that I just have to do – A vision to work towards; and end goal. And I realise it is affecting my approach to the rest of my life. I’ve become slow, lazy, sloppy. There is a saying that if you want something done, ask the busiest person in the room. Busyness creates busyness, and ultimately momentum.

I’ve lost my momentum.

Or have I? Is it simply that I am growing up, and that I realise that work and career isn’t the be all and end all? Am I just mellowing out? Does career have to have such importance in a person’s whole life, just because it once did? Am I just a first-world brat that has developed Flat-Affect and just bored with everything? Do we have to love what we do – like we keep being told? Is it simply time for me to hang up the dreams of yester-year and bunker down for House-keeping? Am I just giving up?

I’m not saying I’ve entirely lost hope that it will ever return; but I’m standing at a blank drawing board, waiting for lightning to strike.

I’m interested to know if there’s any other career women out there who have had a change of heart, and how you’ve navigated your way through it. Tell me about it.