Today I received an email newsletter entitled, “Are you SCARED to make Art?” (It’s from People I’ve Loved, makers of unique prints, paper goods, blankets, and the like. Check them out!) The body of the email contained really sensitive, genuine content about creative difficulty amidst depression. But I couldn’t shirk the joke of the subject line, with an all-caps “SCARED” threatening to turn a vulnerable appeal into mockery (in the vein of “What are ya, scared?”). 

As a holiday Halloween asks the question, “Isn’t it fun to be scared?” To which I answer—in this era more than ever—a resounding NO. I love a great costume and a handful of candy pumpkins as much as the next gal, but as a mammal with a well-developed amygdala, I run away when I encounter something frightening. Stimuli run the gamut from the battery of headline-induced fears to the 3-inch spider in my kitchen yesterday to—you guessed it—writing. 

The fear of creative output is a mysterious thing. The War of Art by Steven Pressfield does a fantastic job citing specific fears we throw at our creative pursuits. Fear of failure, fear of success, fear of God, fear of being stuck, fear of the new, fear of the old… An endless, relentless list. 

About 1 out of 7 days, I push past the fears and put pen to paper. On the other 6, I let the little nattering fears keep me away from making things. In that way, every day is Halloween. The more I avoid, run, and hide, I endorse (if not full-on celebrate) fear’s power. The writing cabin becomes a haunted house, the path to it guarded by malevolent fog. In my mindyard lurk bogeymen that are actually bright blowups in shadow. 

Pressfield would have me marshal my will to fight past these obstructions with every stitch of courage I have. The War of Art, as the title suggests, prescribes something like military strategy for the artist’s inhibitions. I’m not saying this doesn’t work, but I’ve come to prefer a gentler approach. 

On Brene Brown’s podcast Unlocking Us, she recently asked Judd Apatow one of the lightning-round questions she asks every guest: “You’re called to be brave; your fear is real. You’ve got to do something, but you can feel the fear in your throat. What’s the very first thing you do?” Apatow answers that he aims not to avoid the fear but “make friends with it and allow it to be there.” 

Even as a child, I was taught a Pressfieldian stance. Fear was far from a friend, neither cuddly nor kind. Fear was a hostile enemy against whom I guarded myself constantly. If I couldn’t fight it, I would stuff it, deny it, justify it, call it by another name (wisdom, caution, virtue).

Writer’s block is war against the self. If I am constantly defending myself against fear, that defense can metastasize into antagonism against the object of my fear. Meaning I’ll never write at all. I may even convince myself that I’m not afraid. That writing is self-indulgent, a drain on my time, “not my thing,” etc. It’s not up to me to tell you whether or not your avoidance is fear. I’m just telling you: mine most certainly is. 

Making friends with fear doesn’t always mean turning Nosferatu into Mr. Rogers. That’s Halloween for kids, in which everything frightening is (understandably) defanged and painted in rainbow hues. Fear helps us manage our lives and stay out of danger. It tells us not to wheel around the Overlook Hotel or go poking around Norman Bates’ house.

If I first name fear (a crucially important step) and treat it as a friend—an inevitable one at that—I may find my way back into a creative space. Fear’s constant presence would no longer faze me or prevent me from creating. I’d just allow it to stay there as I go for it and make my mess.

And to you, reader, I offer this mess.

Am I scared to make art? Yes, pretty much always. But by making friends with the fear, I disarm it, clear the fog on the way to making stuff. In future posts I’ll share ways that The Artist’s Way facilitated this approach to breaking inner artistic barriers. But for now, I’ll just share this very Halloween-y poem (in March, no less) and say happy creating.