Creating and executing

When it comes to being creative, there’s a big difference between creating and executing. In practice, the distinction is never that clear, but it is useful to think about the two concepts independently, if only as a thought exercise.

For creative people, ideas are our oxygen. Without them, we cannot be. A good idea can shake us out of a slump and have us firing on all cylinders within minutes. They occupy our minds to the point where we can ignore the urge to eat or sleep. But here’s the thing - ideas are never enough. In fact, without discipline, effort and technical prowess, they are but seeds, almost worthless in of themselves.

When you copyright a piece of music you have written, you can apply it on two levels: to the song, and to the recording thereof. In copyright law, the song - the idea - exists essentially independently of whatever recording you might have made of it. A song, the idea in this context, could be as detailed as a written score of sheet music or chorus lyrics scribbled on a napkin at a restaurant. Some people are great at the creating part. They can pick up a guitar, a paint brush or a pen and come up with something cool. If that’s you, consider me envious. That’s a tremendous ability. Get those ideas out. Go back and review them. Cherish them, but be judicious. If an idea sucks, move on to the next one. Just get them out.

Some people aren’t like that. For some of these people, what inspires them and what they are good might be turning these ideas into something tangible. Strumming an acoustic guitar into a voice recorder is well and good, but no one wants to hear a song in that form. Hearing ideas, understanding what is good and bad, and seeing how those ideas fit together is as just a profound a talent as the creating, however less revered it might be.

Both creators and executers can learn a lot from one another. Creative types can always do with a dose of reality. What is possible? How does this all come together? How can we do this? And those who make stuff happen can often take a leaf out of the creative playbook, about thinking about things esoterically, about having ideas of their own.

I sometimes feel like I’m better at executing than creating. In many areas of my life, I tend to favour processes and patterns. When I know how to do something, it’s easier to visualise doing it again, as we know. That’s great, but lazy. I am making a conscious effort to try and be more of an idea generator, because it’s clear that’s where I need to improve.

I know lots of people that are the opposite. History is littered with incredible creators who needed help turning their ideas into something tangible. Watching almost any ‘Classic Albums’ documentary will illustrate that point. Great work is almost always the result of collaboration, of partnerships, of creators and executers. That that sort of help is out there, the hard part is finding the right helper. If you are a creator, seek out feedback and opportunities for collaboration as often as possible. If you are an executer, find people with great ideas and offer to help them sharpen their work. Creative people, regardless of what type you feel they might be, are often most effective working together with others.

On the road

I never more like a Peninsula kid than when I’m in Melbourne.

I never feel more like a Melburnian than when I’m in a different city.

I never feel more like an Australian than when I’m overseas.

I can still remember my first trip overseas, to Fiji with my family. One of the things that has stuck in my memory is the strange camaraderie I had with a couple of cans of Victoria Bitter in the minibar. I was maybe fourteen, and in a foreign country for the first time, I saw those can as symbols of home. I instructed my Dad not to drink them, I needed something to hold on to. It turned out to be two cans of a beer I refuse to drink today.

It is interesting to me how aware I am of my ‘otherness’ when travelling, how all of a sudden some subconscious identity wakes up when I’m in a different place. It’s all in my head, of course, but that doesn’t mean it’s not real to me. It also occurred to me how it occurs on different planes depending on where I am. Like I said, when I’m in Melbourne, I feel comfortable, but I am aware of how much bigger the situation is and how insignificant one person is in the grand scheme.

Walking around in Canberra the past times I have been here, I am acutely aware of my Melbourneness. I think about the graffiti on the walls, the overcast skies, the preoccupation with AFL. I hear the sound of Melbourne hip-hop in my head, of Prowla and Trem, Pegz and Maundz. I think about the alleyways, pubs, trams and concert venues. I think of my city.

It’s been a couple of years since I’ve been overseas, so exactly how I felt about this in the US is a little hazy. I do remember an occasion on my last night in New York I was drinking with a few dudes from the hostel. We had just met, so we addressed each other simply by where we were from. Crude, right? We had a Russian guy, a guy from New Jersey, and a few others, I forget. But I was happy, even delighted, to be called ‘Aussie’ rather than my actual name, which is something that would be pretty ridiculous in any other context. My location was my name. It couldn’t have gotten any more personal than that, I don’t think.

This town, this city, this country, have always been my homes. When visiting different places and operating in different contexts, my identity seems strangely flexible, fluid even. The wide-eyed kid from the seaside town, the guy who rides the Frankston line into Southern Cross each day, and the person who is extraordinarily thankful for Australia’s values and freedoms.
Here’s the thing - I’m not any one these people. I am all of them.

Dealing with the past

There’s this one thing I’ve noticed about myself in recent times. It’s sometimes annoying, sometimes understandable and sometimes pathetic. It’s something I have to learn to deal with better. Put simply, I struggle with the past.

I’ve always been more concerned about the future than the past. I have always felt things in my life were going to get better. You could even say I assumed that they would. Why wouldn’t they? As time goes on, things get better. It has always gone without saying.

When you are underage, the future means more. More freedom, more possibilities, more everything. It means cooler computers, money to spend, places to go and people to meet. Maybe my attitude toward the future is fundamentally adolescent. Perhaps there will be a turning point, an age where I will come to the conclusion that my best moments are likely behind me. I desperately hope that is not the case. I hear many people who are older than me that seem embittered by the years, but conversely I know people younger than me who express similar discontents and frustrations. I prefer to think of my approach as the product of a positive mindset, rather than my age. If that's true, then there should be no reason why I can’t continue to be optimistic about the future as I get older.

I’ve always been uncomfortable with nostalgia. Spending time reflecting on how things were, whether they were good, bad or otherwise, has never been a habit of mine. On occasion, there is some justification for it, but it has become an obsession for some people, an industry in itself. I just feel like it isn’t very constructive. It’s unlikely to help you engage better with the issues of today and tomorrow, because our memories are so often distorted into something that barely reflects those things as we experienced them.

I generally find conversations with people I have not seen for a long time a draining experience. This isn’t true for everyone, I admit. But if you are someone from high school that I haven’t seen for a while, and you see me in a supermarket avoiding you, please be aware that it’s not a reflection on you. It's something I’m not particularly proud. If caught I will always try and have a good conversation, but I’ll sigh with relief when it’s over.

I had a discussion the other day with a co-worker who suggested all of this might be a result of some form of social dissonance. The circumstances that facilitate acquaintances are almost always temporary. How much do you have in common with a person from your basketball team once one of you has left the team? That feeling you get flicking through your Facebook feed, feeling disconnected and cynical about the people you know? In a lot of cases, circumstance alone tied you to these people. It does it not mean you didn’t or do not hold genuine affection for those people. But I feel like seeing things in a different context, like social networks, can be a pretty jarring experience.

In two weeks I return to a workplace where I barely visited in six months. I enjoy the company of those people very much, but that doesn’t much help the nerves. Given a day or two, I’ll probably be back into the swing of things again. I’m sure my answers to the question of ‘so, what have you been up to?’ will end up being pretty well-rehearsed. I’m going to have to manage it all in a pretty conscious way, but I’m sure I’ll be stronger and wiser for it.