If you're like me, you probably wish you had more hours in the day--for rest, for recharging, and for being creative. Case in point, I am writing this post well into the evening hours, a bit bleary eyed and already dreaming of being in bed. Yet here I type, determined to squeeze just a few more minutes out of my day. For years, I have rearranged my daily schedule like a jigsaw puzzle, enticed by the idea that if I can move the pieces around enough, I will discover the secret to solving the puzzle once and for all. My longed for reward? Time, time, and more time; time to make things, to daydream, to simply lie on the grass and look up at the sky. Time is my white whale. 

As with most creative related dilemmas, I made a breakthrough in my quest to find more time when I least expected it. This morning, I feel like I cracked a creative code, and I suspect my discovery will change the way I make things from now on. It feels revolutionary. Are you ready to hear what it is?

I discovered that I don't need more time. I just need to figure out when my creative peak time is and use that time effectively. It turns out my creativity was simply keeping the wrong hours. Let me explain.

I got up an hour earlier today, for no particular reason, certainly not planned. Once I was awake, I was struck by the urge to work on a blog post for The Perpetual Visitors Theatre Company at the kitchen table while I had a cup of tea and a bit of breakfast. Now, it must be said that I've never considered myself a morning person, so following this instinct to write in the morning felt a bit odd at first. However, I've noticed that if I try to work on a creative project after work and dinner and laundry, say around 8:00 pm, I don't have much steam left. In the past, I have devoted two or three or more hours in the evening to a project and noticed that I usually don't get that much accomplished. I don't feel inspired, and I don't feel as sharp. I often feel just plain tired, and ready to wind down for the night. Three hours worth of working while feeling tired produces what an hour of very focused work does. Yet I've been following the old "more time spent means more work accomplished" model nearly all my life. 

But this morning, sitting at my computer, I was bursting with ideas. From 7:15 am until nearly 8:00 am, I wrote quite easily and actually had to pull myself away to get ready for my day job. What would have been a tedious task twelve hours later was joyful. Who knew that spending 45 minutes working in the morning could be just as, if not more fruitful than three times as long working in the evening?

Give it a try yourself, and be open to the idea that your creative peak might occur at an entirely different hour that you imagine it would. Have you always been a morning person? You could work best on writing your novel at night. Perhaps you're a night owl, but sneaking in 30 minutes of writing at lunch feels best. Experiment with it and commit yourself to the task of finding out what hours your creativity really keeps. It may change the way you work and even help to pull you out of a creative rut. 

I'm signing off a bit early tonite so that I can get up early tomorrow morning and have that quiet, playful, creative corner of the day before the clock strikes 8:00 am to chip away at all the things I want to make but never thought I had the time to. 

I'd love to hear, do you have a favorite time of day to write, rehearse, make music, or paint? 

Happy Labor Day weekend! It's September already and though it's been five years (!) since I had my first day of graduate school, I can't help but feel a familiar nostalgia when this time of year rolls around. Lucky for me this year,  I am going back to school for a short while this month--back to my alma mater for a short trip, that is. To my delight, I was invited to return to Upstate New York to teach two days of workshops to the undergraduate performing arts students there. I love Upstate New York in the fall, especially in a college town. The leaves are beginning to turn, the campus bookstores bring out their university sweatshirts for sale, and you can get a slice of pizza from your favorite pizzeria, made in that way that only college town pizzerias can. I will be getting to visit with my professors and a few classmates whom I have not seen in a decade. Honestly, I'm so excited!

And while we're being honest? I'm simultaneously terrified; of flying on the plane to get there, of seeing people I haven't seen in ten years, and of talking to students who are hoping to learn something from someone who supposedly has experience worth learning from. In addition to the workshops I will be teaching to the students, there will also be a performance of a scene from my new play with The Perpetual Visitors Theatre, Big Work. I have never heard the play read aloud with actors before, and am struggling with the fear of sharing the scene with an audience for the first time--what if my colleagues and professors don't like it? What if  the scene in its current form doesn't yet measure up to my vision of what I want the scene to be? My vivid imagination has been dreaming up all sorts of reactions and scenarios, most of which result in me wanting to melt into the floor of the theatre, overwhelmed by feelings of unworthiness and the feeling of having been too vulnerable. "Why was she even invited?" I imagine audience members whispering to each other as they leave the theatre. My imagination is always on my list of the things I am most grateful for, but in cases like this, I wish I could just turn it right off.  

One of the lines my imagination keeps relaying is "But you're not an expert." Last year when I read Outliers by Malcolm Gladwell, I learned that most experts or masters in any field from gardening to violin have one thing in common: they have invested ten thousand hours in their craft. I haven't put nearly that many hours into theatre.  What do I have to teach someone about documentary theatre? I love it yes, but I am not an expert. In fact, documentary theatre is a fairly new pursuit for me. I haven't read nearly all the books or articles I've wanted to about it, I haven't seen all the documentary plays out there, and this is the first time I've ever staged a full length documentary play with an ensemble cast. There's a part of me that doesn't want to show the play to anyone until I know that it works, that an audience will react with positive feedback, and until I know it's as perfect as it can be. But the thing about working towards your ten thousand hours is that you cannot do all of them behind closed doors, where it feels safe. It's almost guaranteed that you have to do many of these hours out loud, where it feels risky.

And yet...I spend a lot of time on here trying to stay positive, to share my belief that fear should not overcome creativity, and that we are worth much more than what we write, direct, make, or perform. Here is my own invitation to mind the gap. I say I believe in defining my own success and not being afraid to fail, but this month, I will grapple with these things not in theory, but in reality. That raises the stakes. It makes it messy.

I am sharing my feelings and fear here on my blog not to garner sympathy or to be self-indulgent, but because I always believe that we should be willing to be vulnerable and authentic, even when it goes against every defense mechanism we have. I also believe that when one person shares their fear, it gives all of us permission to do so. I don't want to shrink in fear from an opportunity that, scary as it feels, also sounds exciting. I want to stretch myself. I want to learn to put my beliefs into practice and dare to feel afraid, uncomfortable, and not know the answer. 

Ironically, the very professor who invited me to do this workshop with her students was the one who gave me an unforgettable piece of advice back when I was in her class. She told me never to make the easy choice, but go for the interesting one. She said "If there's a choice you have between a role that you know you can play onstage, no leap necessary, and a role that you have no idea how you'd pull off, but you really want to dive in and try, always go for the one you aren't sure you can do." 

I'm not sure how this workshop will turn out, but I know that I want to do it. I want to be courageous and comfortable with not feeling like an expert. I want to acknowledge that I might have something imperfect but worthwhile to share with the students, and believe that I am valued by my professors and colleagues not only for the theatre skills I possess but for the person I am. I want to not have the entirety of my self-worth to hinge upon what others think about the art I make.

So, I am going to get on that plane, sit nervously in the dark through the very first performance of my play, and offer my own experience up to the students for whatever it may be worth.  Afterwards, no matter what happens, I will come back to Boston, and continue with creative projects I care about so much. As Maya Angelou said, "I can be changed by what happens to me, but I refuse to be reduced by it." I can't control if I am the most theatrically talented person in that theatre, but I can focus on being as generous of spirit and as authentic as possible while offering my experiences to the students. That is something within my power, and that must be enough. 

Alright friends, do share: What are you afraid to do, but are absolutely interested in exploring? What's stopping you from taking that jump?


Also, if you missed it, check out my newest blog on Howlround, where I talk about the need to redefine success for ourselves.