This article is part of a year-long series by Deborah Henson-Conant that will explore the process, art, and craft of invention and reinventing yourself.
Reinvention is the process of getting closer and closer to the truth of who we are so we can express our true selves. Expressing ourselves—especially in an art form and an instrument we were drawn to for its expressive qualities—should be the easiest thing in the world, right? Yet often it feels like the hardest. Sometimes we feel like we can’t even get started.
If we’re motivated by the expectation that “this has to be really good” or “this has to be perfect” or “this has to be even better than the last one” or any other “has to,” then it can become impossible to begin.
This has nothing to do with our level of technical expertise. I experience this challenge personally, and with everyone I coach, from fledglings to professionals. Everyone struggles with it. It has to do with how much practice we’ve invested in thinking we’re not good enough, or not as good as we once were, or not as good as we should be by now.
Trying to act in the midst of comparing what we’re doing to some real or imaginary ideal can create what I call emotional stuttering, and it can be so intense that we become stuck. It gets even worse when we realize we’re stuck and we tell ourselves it’s because we’re lazy, wimpy, disorganized, or whatever we’re most afraid of being.
So how do we even begin when we’re in that state? How do we move? Here are a few of the techniques and tricks I use:
- I literally talk to my blocks. I often call out the emotion or character trait I think I’m struggling with and have a conversation with it. I’ll sit down with a journal and write out, “Resistance! I want to talk to you” or “Laziness, get off your duff and come out here!” The trait will begrudgingly, or aggressively, or shyly come onto the page and talk back to me, in my own handwriting.
If you’ve never talked to your own emotions or personality traits, it can be a little daunting at first—but mostly just because you feel silly (a sure sign you’re doing it right) and like you’re making up everything they say.
When I engage parts of myself in conversation, I might end up in tears or laughing out loud. Often, an emotion that began as a silent, invisible enemy ends up being a fierce ally with a lot to tell me about myself. This alone can release me from the stuckness.
- I ask for help. This can be absurdly difficult. I once asked my best friend to email and tell me to get off my butt, stop feeling sorry for myself and just get on with it, because that’s what I needed to hear.
She didn’t want to do it because, to her, that sounded mean. But I needed that kind of direct tough-love to break me out of my emotional stutter. So I wrote out exactly what I needed to hear, sent it to her and said, “Please just send this to me.”
She did, I framed it and it lives on my studio wall where it continues to entertain and inspire me.
Another technique I use, borrowed from Alcoholics Anonymous, is bookending—checking in with a support person both before and after engaging in a potentially triggering event. I like to imagine I’m on a dangerous mission, checking in with headquarters as I go, and since getting someone to keep up this kind of exchange can be its own challenge, I sometimes bookend with an imaginary partner. It might sound like this: “Now heading into studio with tuning key” (“Good work, Agent DHC!”) “Made it into studio.” (“Excellent!”) “Tuned harp without forgetting what I was doing.” (“Incredible memory!”) “Turning on video camera.” (“You can do it, brave one!”) And so forth.
- I schedule the time. Putting it on the calendar isn’t as scary as actually doing it, and then simply seeing it on my schedule can get me to do it. I schedule things a few different ways, and you’ll notice they all involve another person, since sometimes doing it with someone else is the only way I can get started.
I often schedule work sessions with colleagues where we meet on Skype and describe what we each need to do. Then we mute our audio/video, set a timer, and work. We check in at the end, sometimes share our work and give feedback, and schedule our next session.
I also schedule paid rehearsals with professionals. I recently finished a musical by hiring a music director to come to my studio every Wednesday night at 7:30, whether I’d written another note of the piece or not, and we’d just play through what I had. Doing this with him was a huge leap of faith for me. I often felt unprepared and paying him was important because I could stop worrying about making it interesting or fun. We simply committed to going through the motions together. Little by little the show took shape, I started hearing the flow and seeing what needed to happen where, and after six months of Wednesday nights, we staged a play-reading.
Going through the motions again…and again…and again can be the key to finally truly starting. Keep these techniques in mind as you begin your project:
Acknowledge what you’re feeling instead of trying to avoid it. Have fun with that. Look for the unwritten rules you’re following. Experiment with what parts of them you can break. Get help in whatever ways work for you and be open to unexpected ways. Ask for help. Pay for help if needed. Schedule time. Put it on a calendar, and when that time is over, schedule the next time. And whether your last beginning worked out or not…begin again…and again. •
