01: Time and ... Space
Hello!
Welcome to my first official newsletter! I didn't realize I had subscribers! ::waves::
I want to use this space to explore creativity, art, storytelling, writing, design, tech and the intersections between them—whatever that means. I personally know those connections are what rev me up, and so, I must start somewhere. Thus, here we go!
Let's step back in time
In mid-August, I took my first vacation of 2020. I'd pretty much been working on UX and product strategy things nonstop. But wrapped in the uncertainty of the pandemic and overall boo-ness of life, I was also having regular panic attacks. According to one of my nearest and dearest, I needed to step away from my shelter-in-place to shake things up. Thus, I embraced danger and rented an Airbnb in the desert for a week.
I packed for all eventualities because I really didn't know what I was going to do. Would I just lay in bed all week and eat potato chips? Would my mushy brain coalesce and spit out sparkly sentences? Would I even be able to sightsee because of the pandemic or eat outside because of the 110 to 120 degree heat? And what about the California wildfires?
I just didn't know, but having no plan has served me well in the past, and I've learned to trust myself when I float from idea to location and location to idea. So I let the week develop itself as it went. My most provocative action was meandering the Downtown loop in Palm Springs and eating pineapple soft serve. I sped through all of Warrior Nun on Netflix one evening. I finally was able to tackle two editing projects that I just couldn't face before the trip. And of course, I wrote.
The writing specifically happened on Wednesday when I drove out to the Salton Sea. It is a man-made body of water with a salinity greater than the Pacific Ocean that gets saltier and saltier every year. Because of the pandemic, no one was there. Aside from the birds, I was the only other thing present on the shore. And while it was cooler by the water than not, my skin still felt as if I was standing over a boiling pot of water.
For quite awhile, I sat on top of a picnic table under a wooden pergola, watching the birds. A pelican stood with its head under a wing on a rock. Sandpipers stepped along little rippling waves. There were these black and white sea birds that when they flew held their bright orange legs straight out behind them.
I then wandered down the shore fascinated by all the different textures on the ground. There were a great deal of what seemed like crunchy gravel-like plastic caps or broken shells. Every time I stepped into them, my foot kicked them up. It constantly sounded as if someone was walking behind me. On my way out, I would stop to ask the ranger—both of us donning masks and remaining a respectful distance—what it was exactly. He would explain that the military used to bring their ships to the Salton Sea for maneuvers, and they would leave barnacles behind them. The barnacles had no natural predators so all of their detritus was left on the shore.
For awhile, I balanced on the circular crusts right at the seam between water and shore much like you would find at a natural hot spring. I tiptoed along the edges and held my hand right at the surface. The water was warm like a bathtub.
Eventually, I went back to my table and started writing all these details down that you're now reading. While I wrote, the wind kept pushing the pages of my notebook over. They tapped each other noisily as if they were in a race to the other side, but they couldn't make it because of my hand.
As I wrote, I thought about how this—listening, observation and recording—is something I’ve constantly learned in writing. It's also a skill my teachers cultivated and emphasized in so many of my writing classes.
For example, there was the class I took called Roadwrite. We traveled to Joshua Tree and Big Sur. We would wander around, write our observations and then share them. From these snippets and nebulous impressions, we'd then piece together something to articulate and share. Like:
I wonder if they shall be here,
a thousand years from now –
the rough cliffs, and
me?
*(written at Montaña de Oro in 2003)*
Or when I was in grad school, the talented Janet Fitch in her techniques of fiction class gave us writing challenges based on the senses. Write seven sounds a day. Describe the sunrise one hour then thirty minutes then ten minutes before and after. Remember and recount five smells from deep memory, and etc.
The point of all this practice is to build up writerly abilities. So that when you sit down to compose a story, you have the tangible record and also the unconscious memory of all these observations sitting inside you, waiting for use. Think of them like seeds; through, persistent and constant noticing, you plant it somewhere deep. As you move through life, you unconsciously till that soil and encourage the seeds to grow into something. You can't know what it is or what it's going to be—fruit, vegetable or alien corn monster—until it blooms!
It's this second value I think about often because it requires the writer or the artist or the creator to live in uncertainty. That day, I wrote: "I'm at the Salton Sea and my anxiety is like a tornado consigned to the back of my head." There was nothing to iterate. Nothing to prototype. There was no way to quantify the ROI of that line or me idling on a bench via metrics for my client or business. But what about to myself? To my tomorrow? Or in a year from now? What might that thought build on and become? By letting myself have it, what might I reap?
I don't know. I can't guess, but that's the adventure part of creativity I most appreciate and miss when I'm working officially. It's the part that takes the most time and faith and skill, and because of that, it's the part I believe is the most invisible and undervalued by our society and professional industries.
So often, I feel that people mistake "working," "designing," "strategizing," "creating" and "UX-ing" as something that happens visually, physically and collaboratively in a conference room, on post-it notes or via a digital collaboration tool. But generally, I've learned and found that a lot of what I bring to the tangible table is whatever I've absorbed before that moment. And then, after that very acute moment of interaction, you must absorb, plant and be before you come to it again.
I believe profoundly in this listening, being, observing, absorbing talent, and I believe it deserves recognition, investment, time and space equal to that or more of any other skill to which we dedicate ourselves.
Time jump to the present!
It's November now, and I'm on what has become my yearly sabbatical. Over the last few years, I've learned to specifically take time off to enjoy unstructured time—to float from moment to moment. It didn't start out that way, but now I can't wait to let my mind curl up against ideas or drift curiously down other paths without interruption from deadlines or projects or things. Will I wake up early? Will I write today? Maybe I'll just eat cake! I don't know. Yesterday, I took a beach towel outside, laid it on the concrete and read. Twice, the wings of crows startled me when they flapped overhead.
In a recent conversation with a fellow creative director, we both agreed how our best skills actually seem to come from knowledge and experience that doesn't have a direct link to our work. So as we close out this very uncertain year, I encourage you all to close your eyes and embrace spontaneity. Dedicate an hour, a day, a weekend if you can to uncertainty and discover something. Anything.
As is true in design, don't step into it with a sense or need for a solution. Instead, walk forth and let it just become whatever it will be as you go deeper. Trust yourself. Listen. What do you see? What do you feel?
Cheers,
Sarah
Reading, Watching, Listening
God, the Moon, and Other Megafauna by Kellie Wells This is the book I mentioned. In one short story, Time dates God but feels like they won't make it because he has commitment issues. Or, there's Matilda who just floats over Kansas. I quite love this collection.
To maintain my sanity during the election, I watched The Grand Budapest Hotel four times. I DID notice that it seemed a little Hitchcock-ian after awhile, and so this Youtube video about how the scene in the museum parallels the movie Torn Curtain was gratifying. It also shows how a smart storyteller can play on multiple levels with meaning. I also listened to the soundtrack a lot.
Professional Hurrahs!
I published some well-received posts on Medium!
I spent all year working with the talented L3A Studio on the newly launched Zera Hemp Labs. I’m very proud of our strategy, design and research work for the website, app and overall operations.
I published a book!
It took over ten years, but I'm very smug about it. Here are some nice things people say about it:
"A truly enjoyable spin on the adventures of navigating adulthood and the evolution of friendship."
"A love and lyrical exploration of a close college friendship, sustained -- at first easily, and then with more effort -- as two young women strive to share their lives from a distance."
"This is a book to revisit, and especially fun to read if you've lived in another country and felt at odds and at home."