The Dance With Dullness

Thoughts on commitment and creative gaps

The fields of stars have returned.

Hello to you - you, who has a name, a name which I cannot say.

I’d say it if Substack gave me the option to; if I could link your name into your e-mail, or cleverly attach it to this post like magic. Perhaps then you’d feel this was directly and personally to you. 

Or maybe you’d feel I was faking it, looking cynically at my attempt at connection through the lens of the old familiar marketing trick, designed to feel like all these people know us, when really they just want our hard earned cash, isn’t that right?

Never mind. I’ll try to express my gratitude for you being here regardless of your name’s lack of existence on this page.

There are currently thirteen - fourteen! of you here, and I’ve smiled at each email notifying me of your subscription. We could make a nice poetry group with that number! (If you all fancy moving to Liverpool?)

You had more steps to get here than the measly ‘Follow’ button on Instagram - trust me, your commitment has not gone unnoticed.

[And to those tentative readers, thank you to your eyes also - you can make yourselves at home via this little box below…😏]

Let’s begin…

Dear [your name here, pronounced accurately, and with heartfelt sincerity],

I want to say how good it feels to be writing again. I say ‘again’, but I’ve never really stopped, not properly, and not privately anyway. It’s mainly that this is the first place where my writing has felt at home in a public place, even though I’m only three posts in.

The truth is, writing has been calling my name for a long time, and I’ve pushed back against committing to it in this way for So. Bloody. Long.

And it makes me sad, you know? How much we know what we love, oftentimes from a young age, and we just go No, not now, not yet, come back later. Later - when? You have paper, what more do you need? Time. Okay. Okay then.

And time is given, and still it waits.

But as you commit, so must I.

Polishing Your Dull Detector

Soon into starting Afterlight, I created a dull post.

It’s ok, I’m not asking for your sympathy - I’ve moved on. It got deleted, RIP dull post.

It was an interesting moment of resistance for me (as Steven Pressfield calls it in The War Of Art). The writing was fine, and it made me laugh - with the intention of also making you laugh - but it wasn’t really saying anything.

Ultimately it was a sort of pre-introduction. There was no meat, nothing to sink into. And I’d fooled myself.

It’s made me wonder - how can we know when we’re creating ‘dull’ work from the place of being a beginner, and when is it simply boring because we’re ignoring the creations that are well within our reach?

It’s a sensitive word, I know - and maybe hearing me using it this many times is making you twitch from fear of judgment. Nobody wants to be dull. We all want to be different, to have ‘something about us’ (but not so different that we’re out of the group though, right?).

The importance of making space for the mediocre in order to experiment, regardless of where you are on the scale from beginner to pro, is also worth considering. To which the devil’s advocate in me pipes up: ‘You don’t really stop being a beginner though, do you?’. And they’re not wrong. I’ve trained that voice well. I just wonder: how long might we be holding on to overused beginner traits, in areas that we’re really not beginners any more, and how can we suss them out?

You Know When You’re Moving

Once I’ve gone through all the various threads in my mind on our favourite word, this is where I settle. This is an attempt at identifying the difference within me:

• Is there a sense of movement in what I’m doing?

• Do I sense myself moving even if I don’t know where I’m moving to?

• And in what I’m creating, what can I ‘see’ around me, and how am I listening to myself? Am I listening to myself?

If I believe I’m moving, but in my mind there are shelves of words trying to get my attention - which I’m actively ignoring - there’s a chance I’m probably not moving after all but leaving good work on the table. These are the moments where I’m holding on tightly to the feeling of being a beginner in areas I’ve outgrown; a reluctance to bid the amateur farewell. Cue the journey to a dull destination, and a dull first post.

If you feel you’re moving towards something, and you’re not necessarily sure what it is, but what you see around you is mostly tangled words and pictures, and your outcome is work that’s also a bit bland, a bit mediocre, then I’d argue that your work is dull for the right reasons. You’re actively participating in the dance with dullness, and from there you’ll move closer to an un-dulled destination. Ira Glass called it the gap; “For the first couple years you make stuff, it’s just not that good. It’s trying to be good, it has potential, but it’s not. But your taste, the thing that got you into the game, is still killer. And your taste is why your work disappoints you...It is only by going through a volume of work that you will close that gap, and your work will be as good as your ambitions.”

Within that state, you’re in a clear place of being a beginner (despite it feeling anything but clear).

Repetition, Repetition

Steven Pressfield refers to being boring as being stuck in repetition: “Something that’s boring goes nowhere. It travels in a circle.” And to me, that’s exactly it. But there are also times when repetition is needed in our work - in practicing and strengthening in order to improve.

Then there’s the type of repetition experienced during moments of not knowing where the hell we’re going next. In a video clip doing the rounds on Instagram, art critic David Sylvester passionately talks about how artists must be allowed to “get in a mess…must be allowed to have dud experiments.” He also highlights repetition: “…artists must also be allowed to have periods where they repeat themselves in a rather aimless, fruitless way…” which might feel at odds with Steven’s point. However, the key thing here, I think, is what David continues with: “…before they can pick up and go on.”

What I hear in David’s words is a sense of motion, a need to move through the mess in order to find the pieces, the stuff which the artist will eventually sift through and use. To not simply sit in that space without attempting to move with or beyond it, or at least acknowledging that it’s happening.

There’s repetition from a much needed place of practice, and there’s repetition from preventing yourself from progressing with your work. There’s dullness out of beginning, and there’s dullness from ignoring the fact you’re no longer the beginner you once were - the beginner I once was, with putting words into the world. And that’s not to say I am beyond dullness - or being a beginner for that matter - but that I’m willing to catch it when it isn’t moving me anywhere.

Fragments Of Light

• The Gap by Ira Glass - a video set to Ira’s words on the creative process. I’ve returned to this video many times since it appeared nine years ago, right on the cusp of pursuing my business. Ira talks about the process of getting through the work that isn’t so great in order to get to the good stuff.

• “If you endeavour to make your art palatable for everyone, you will become a mediocre artist who makes mediocre art. You and your art aren’t for everyone (that’s a good thing).” - Amie McNee on Instagram. I appreciate Amie’s honesty and her willingness to be straight with her thoughts on creativity, so much so that I’ve recently joined The Inspired Collective, a community run by Amie for creatives which begins every six months.

• This is the video snippet from David Sylvester on Instagram, where he talks about the need for artists to experiment and “make a mess”. The clip is from The Visual Scene: Episode 3 ‘Playing it Cool’ on BBC iPlayer.

• I’ve begun reading Turning Pro by Steven Pressfield, his follow-up to The War Of Art, which I know well - so well, in fact, that Turning Pro has been sat on my shelf waiting for years. I told myself the title just wasn’t as catchy, but I know Steve would have other ideas, ‘It was resistance with a capital R.’ he would tell me, cutting through my unimaginative excuse for not moving on to the next book. And my reply would be, ‘Well, that must mean I have to read the first one again, then!’ Typical unimaginative excuse number two. If you’re not familiar with Steven’s writing, The War of Art covers the inner battles we face with committing to our creativity. The relationship with Resistance. And Turning Pro is all about…turning pro, y’know. I don’t think it’s a coincidence that it’s finally left its bookshelf life just as I start to fully embrace writing.

Where did these thoughts take you? What’s your relationship like with dullness in your work, or with being honest with where you’re at?

I’d love for these posts to go beyond the full stop in my writing. Come say hello in a comment, hit reply, or give it a like if you enjoyed it.

Even if your thought is incomplete, it’d be great to hear from you. In fact, especially if it’s incomplete! Any unfinished contemplations are welcome here…