Building a Table
Recently, I had a thought: being a creative is like building a table.
When I decide I need a table, I have a couple of different options. I could just buy a table from Restoration Hardware, or Pottery Barn. Alternatively, I could troll my beloved second hand stores, or even sort through the various listings on Facebook Marketplace. Perhaps I can find something with a bit more character or, at the very least, find a discount. If I’m feeling particularly spicy, a little butch, even, I could also buy a table from Ikea or Wayfair; one that I have to assemble myself. There’s a manual to act as my Virgil, guiding me as I navigate the nine circles of building a table, and providing me with perfectly-cut pieces and just the right amount of screws (assuming I don’t lose any in my carpet). I put it together, and I may even take pride in it.
I find that all those ways of acquiring a table are the metaphorical equivalent to working a more traditional job. Like the manual that comes with the Ikea table, there’s this set of steps that I can take to deliver myself to the paradisio promised by a stable life. I go to high school, earn good grades, then attend college, and use my degree to start a career. A different life can, sometimes, seem as simple as buying a table.
This imago of a more traditional life stands in contrast to my current reality of living as a creative. Instead of buying a table, I’ve decided, for some reason, to build one from scratch. I journey out into the forest and, after finding a wood that I like, cut down some trees for materials. Then, I strip the bark and begin to cut the remaining log into the necessary pieces. I make my own two by fours, sand down the legs until they’re smooth, and stain the wood. Then comes the detailing of the wood, the selection of finishes, and the assembly of all these pieces I’ve made from scratch. That’s the ideal, at least. Crafting tables also has the curious effect of inspiring me to build more tables. To use my skills and scraps from other projects to begin new ones.
I go through this trouble of being a creative, of making my own table because, for some reason, the tables from Wayfair, or Pottery Barn, those trappings of normalcy, don’t quite appeal to me. They’re not to my liking. Far too rigid. Not enough charm.
What no one can really describe to you, though, is just how hard it can be to build that table from scratch. In choosing to be a creative and, thus, building my own table, I have to accept that, as much as I want it to be, building that table can’t be my only obligation (at least for a while). What I’m finding is that, while other people can just buy their table and have that be the end of it, building my own table is much more complicated. It requires me to strike a balance between the table and my other obligations. Somehow, I need to find a way to afford a trip to the forest, as well as the stain for the wood and the tools to put it all together. As a result, I’ve had to get one of those gray tables with the legs that fold out just so I can afford to build my own nicer table. Then, there’s the labor of actually making the structure. I get tired from the heavy lifting, I feel pain as the splinters stab into my skin, and I wheeze through the debris caught in my lungs, a negative externality of my diligent craftsmanship.
And, sometimes, when the legs look wonky or the stain isn’t the right color, I allow myself to wonder why the fuck I thought it would be a good idea to build my own table in the first place. Why I couldn’t just be satisfied with buying a table. I even find myself resenting the table sitting in the wood shop that I’ve built around it. I get swept up into the obligations of life outside my table and I begin to neglect my project. Then, I begin to resent it, as it reminds me of the work I’ve never completed. Tempted, at points, to destroy the table, I flirt with waving the white flag and deleting every remnant of an ambition that has become too painful.
Sometimes, I just want to give in and buy a goddamn table.
All this extended metaphor to say, being a creative can be really hard. Choosing this life for myself can sometimes feel like self-flagellation (and not the fun kind). Every week begins anew with a newsletter to be written and a podcast to be produced and recorded. These are ventures on top of the multiple jobs I find myself working so that I can a) continue to support these projects and b) relocate somewhere that may be more conducive to their creative growth. Balancing all of this requires a certain level of discipline that I find hard to sustain. Most days, however, I feel passionate enough about these endeavors to keep at them. Somewhere within me, I believe that sticking with these passion projects will pay off in more ways than they already have.
My faith, though, does not nullify the labor that goes into my various creative undertakings. Nor does it make it less onerous to carve out time for them. These past two weeks especially, I’ve really struggled to get these newsletters on their feet. Not even because I’m dealing with an unmanageable schedule or unruly obligations; more so because I have this general malaise at the cycle of having to always start over. I know starting over is a part of the creative process; you can’t work on the same project forever. However, the cycle can feel sisyphean. How do I gauge the progress of my creations when I get so little external feedback? What does success even look like in this independent model I’ve crafted for myself? I’ve been wondering if it will always be this way.
Thinking about it now, perhaps I am a bit presumptuous in thinking that non-creatives are free of these feelings. I think about my mother, who I’ve watched run a successful business as long as I can remember. She’s figured out how to do it without a map. Watching her, there have, of course, been moments where she was lost in uncharted territory; but there are also moments where she’s gone to the cartographer’s table and, like the badass she is, sketched out her own map. I’m sure it’s tiring, but I also know it’s rewarding.
And perhaps you, dear reader, also feel like you’re pushing that rock up a hill just for it to fall back down again. I have no guarantees of success to offer, but maybe the fact that I’m right there with you, feeling similarly trepidatious, can provide some solace.
As much as I want to sometimes, I’m going to hold off on buying any tables for now. I’m going to keep hammering away at my own, and I hope the same for anyone else who feels a bit unsure.
