When January 2020 hit, I wrote an extremely ambitious list of resolutions, likely driven by the excitement of the new decade–most of which I barely adhered to by the end of February. By mid-March, my creative energy lulled like a candle at the end of its wick. I abandoned blogging. I starved my YouTube channel of new content. I could not write anything longer than a caption to a meme. Wildly uninspired and oscillating between apathetic and overwhelmed, my creative process felt less like writing was once my passion and more like a root canal without anesthetic. Everything that I attempted to write felt dreadfully irrelevant or a depressing reminder of normalcy long gone.
At the start of quarantine, I bought a tripod to film vlogs and covers for YouTube. The tripod continues to sit in the corner of my room, unused. In a futile attempt to jumpstart my creativity, I began The Artist’s Way by Julia Cameron, promising via contract in the preface of the book to complete all twelve weeks of the course. I took an indefinite break after week ten. (Sorry for breaking my contract, Julia Cameron). I purchased a bizarre amount of books that I did not read. In all honesty, I’m not even sure if I read a single book after the quarantine began.
I neglected working on my novel, recording my album, writing new tunes, making new content, reading, writing new short stories and poetry, and getting out of my pajamas for nearly a year.
Simply, I was exhausted. Creativity is not compatible with exhaustion. I was not productive in 2020, and I don’t feel bad about it, because in reality, rest is productive.
Rest. Is. Productive.
You cannot pour from an empty cup.
Towards the end of 2020, I desperately needed to find my footing. I tried to find a way out of my nauseating anxious apathy. I started journaling again. I picked up Gilda Radner’s memoir that I started (and put down) in July. I indulged myself in nostalgia, baking traditional Italian cookies that my great-grandmother used to make for my grandparents, shipping them to New Jersey, three-thousand miles away. (Those cookies traveled more miles than my entire family combined this year). I got out of pajamas. I sang Mariah Carey’s “All I Want For Christmas Is You” at the top of my lungs and watched claymation Christmas movies. I felt like the Winter Warlock in Santa Claus Is Coming To Town—convincing myself that progress is simply one foot after the other.
I started writing some standup comedy ideas. I kept making silly memes. I reread my old work. I launched the merch for manicpixiememequeen. I started working with my cousin, Amanda Amato, who is insanely gifted (and seemingly tireless—unfortunately, I did not get that gene), writing content for her business, AMA Designs & Interiors. (If you’re at all interested in interior design, I highly recommend you check out what I’m writing over on her blog).
On New Year’s Eve, I wrote about the loss and grief that we all experienced in 2020. I reflected on the year, what I learned, how it made me access my life and values, and how I want to apply that to this year. My resolutions this year aren’t necessarily less ambitious than last year, but they are more flexible and offer some much needed self-compassion. Yes, I want to be more present blogging and making YouTube videos. Yes, I want to finish the manuscript of Unfunny Girl (my novel) and record and release hunger. (my album) by the end of the year. But as 2020 so brutally reminded us: nothing is for certain; take nothing for granted. Whether this reminder holds a flame under my ass to get shit done or whether this reminder makes me slow down and enjoy the time I have right now in this present moment with my loved ones, I am going to accept it and appreciate it for what it is, because as gross and trite as it sounds, we genuinely never know what tomorrow will bring.
Be back soon,
—c
P.S. I’ve already amended my resolutions. It’s January 5.
If you feel so compelled—send me a message about what you would like me to write about on the blog!