This I Believe

I believe I am creative. I knew this as a young child, but I had to rediscover it as an adult.

When I was in third grade, a babysitter called me lazy because I did not enjoy making puppets from paper bags and people out of pom-poms. I wasn’t crafty and my projects never looked right. I still carry that label deep inside, though my rational brain knows that I am highly motivated in other areas.

In middle school, a teacher knocked me down again. Creativity = 0, the paper screamed in red ink. My short story came back with high marks for grammar and style, but no credit for creativity, shooting the overall grade. My teacher told me she was certain she had read my story somewhere.

I thought the idea was my own, but I began to doubt myself. I binged on books, so maybe all my ideas came from books I had read. Probably I did not have an original thought in my head. Anyway, I was lazy, right? I put down my creative pen and did not pick it up for over twenty years.

I did go on to get my doctorate in school psychology, and was one of few who actually enjoyed writing my dissertation. But when it came time to do the job my degree specified, I found myself unenthusiastic. It required me to be judge and arbiter of human potential in a way that discomforts me. Last year, I returned to journaling, as an outlet for my soul-searching. Suddenly, the light bulb flashed on.

Now I realize I was born to write. I’m stunned that I carried the belief I was not creative with me for so long, and that it blocked me from my true calling. I am not alone, though.

My husband, a successful community leader, does not believe he is creative. His sister was the volatile artist in the family, while he was the conformer. He is also artistically gifted, but he doesn’t believe it.

I believe everyone has a creative flame longing to glow, though many are doused in childhood. I want my children to be creators of thoughts and ideas and art. I hope they’ll be actively engaged in life, not just passively absorbing whatever is out there.

I write for myself, but I also write for my sons and my nieces, all of whom are creative sparkplugs. I write to communicate that I believe my ideas have value and deserve expression, as do theirs. I celebrate myself with words because, at 35, I finally believe that I am creative.