The Writing Life
My Creative Map
January 2012
Heidi R.C. Kraay
The arts inform each other in a connected, collaborative way. They make a map to life that can be absorbed in pages or lived out in two hours on a stage. They can also fit loosely on a mural, scream out of a music performance or sweep sharply into a dance. I have worked with all art forms and write because that is what I know best, but I also tap my resources regularly for other mediums, bringing in artists who know more than I do about their specific craft. Learning from their music, dance and visual expression stretches my imagination and abilities. Reading a story out of a novel, a book of short poems or seeing one linearly onstage is one thing. When a story is environmental, told physically by contemporary dancers in an art gallery and when it is a communal experience, with hundreds of sweating bodies pressed together like they’re at a rock concert, it is easier to hear.
It is imperative that the story be worthwhile when it is heard. This is an enormous responsibility. The stories I create must be absolutely meaningful and necessary—at least to me. On the other hand, my process also makes room for failure. When I don’t know what I’m doing, which is most of the time, I stab at it anyway. I figure out what I’m trying to say using page after page until I almost get it right. I allow myself to write the worst junk in all time and by doing so I go wild through daily exploration. Writing in poetry, prose and drama and working in conjunction with writers, musicians, dancers and more, I find a new voice each day. That voice can be a short monologue in repetition. It can be a full-length play that involves music as much as dialogue to further the dramatic action. It can be a novel rooted in song that ten other musicians have strung together. It can be visual art that uses poetry. That voice can be all of the above told through dance and video in a gallery on a street that cannot be ignored and that nobody wants to forget.
When I open up to write, that voice must be personally rooted. It must be hopeful, though it may appear dark. It must make a difference or aim to do so. It must shout out in an engaging, powerful and moving way. Thankfully, that voice doesn’t rely solely on my words and can utilize help from actors, musicians, visual artists, dancers and filmmakers. Whatever voice is used, however, writing for me is about seizing each moment and reaching to personal depths in order to find an ultimate height. No matter what kind of words are used—poetry, prose, fact, fiction, drama, film, song, paint, movement, shape—each moment is an opportunity to challenge, not an excuse to entertain. I get into a rhythm when it works right. I start catching the flow, as I’m doing right now. For me, writing is like learning to love myself. It takes daily practice. I’ve been practicing self-love for years now, since wonderfully frustrating conversations with M.A. Taylor, since working on my first play at Boise State University and since taking my first playwriting class. That’s when I decided to start saving myself through writing, art and theater.
From that point, I learned to face every mistake after mistake, cut after binge and purge, burn after one-night-stand, “sorry” after drink and tears. Instead of submitting, I pushed through selfish despair and lazy resistance with a creative arsenal. Pain early on was a big blessing. For me, it worked. I’m strong enough to learn from it and am better because of and despite it. All the feelings and visions that could have killed me are newly applied vitality when I write and make art. Now, life is what matters: creative life. Look at my bright eyes twinkling decisively. I glow in bright light when I write. With ideas running rampant in my head and emotions pumping through my veins, I can hardly contain it most of the time, so I let it loose on the page.
Like anyone else, I have big flaws that have been exposed through bigger failures. My failures, however, helped teach me who I am, what I am capable of doing and how I can improve and better myself. These failures are mighty gifts and I learn from them each day on the page and the stage. None of it is wasted, though it can be. What I learn through failure and success I am responsible to use for my own betterment, as well as to strengthen my work and connect with my community, no matter how private or large. Otherwise, it is wasted, as we as writers, artists and humans throw life away when we forget to seize each moment and learn to live better by what we create. I am soaring when I fulfill my purpose, so I make sure to do it each day. I get up early and begin by writing first thing, continuing all day if I’m lucky.
Art helps us evolve and appreciate the small, delicate, forgettable moments. A lot of my life was misspent in sickness, disorder and abusive relationships. Now is the time to write for all that I’m worth. It is hard work. It is fun work, I know, as is pointed out to me consistently. I don’t do it because it’s fun, though. I need it. I have to put myself on the page and the stage or I’ll explode. I explode in a big and good way when I create and collaborate and perform, write without stopping my hand from moving, learn to trust my mind and when I live with purpose. I know I will fail and I know I will learn from that failure and get better at what I do and who I am because of it. That is the beauty of art and the truth of writing. It makes life worth living. It is my road map.
Heidi Kraay writes plays, poetry, stories and arts columns and works in theatre and music production. Plays include Kilgore, Robots in the Ring, The Monster in the Bookstore and Devour Your Ultimatum, Survivors, Carny Veil and Mere Ending, among others.Current projects include Me and My Shadow, a full-length play to be produced in May 2012; Where the River Runs Red, a novel in collaboration; two poetry manuscripts and more. Heidi holds a BA in Theatre Arts from Boise State University and is always looking forward to her next creative endeavor.
