For a long time, I didn’t consider myself a creative person. Give me a canvas and a medium and I would wrack my brain for something to fill it with, desperately wanting to make something other people would want to look at. Usually, I wound up resorting to the same things: flowers, self-portraits, the occasional eyeball because for some reason I liked drawing eyelashes (which were, of course, just quick strokes). In conversations about personality types, I claimed I was not creative and identified myself as the perfectionist—organized, responsible, detail-oriented, holding above-par self-standards, preferring to do things myself. In short, you could put my picture in the psychology textbook next to the section on Type A personalities.
For some reason, it never computed in my brain that my number-one hobby—creative writing—required creativity. Not until halfway through high school, when I’d decided to pursue an English degree, did I begin conceding that I might have been slightly creative in some ways. It was a start.
Coming to college, I started softening some of my hardline, Type-A characteristics; not getting rid of them necessarily, but making them more amenable to the ever-changing landscape of being a college student (i.e., new professors and new classmates every ten weeks, accidentally getting on the wrong bus that drops you off miles from your destination, impromptu midnight trips to SloDoCo with friends). So, by the time Spring Quarter registration rolled around at the end of my first year, I was ready to embrace my Type-B side—I enrolled in two “art” classes. One was fiction writing—not as much of a stretch, since I had already been doing that for years—but the other was one that I knew would really stretch the bounds of my imagination and force me to relinquish some of my perfectionism: drawing.
Spoiler alert: I loved it. In the frustrating, introspection-inducing kind of way. It was hard, and I was confronted with the necessity to accept something less than “perfect” with the first assignment. But it was doing exactly what I wanted it to do: build my creative self-efficacy. I was rewarded for the hours I spent on a piece—forgiving myself, being willing to make mistakes, and accepting the trial-and-error learning process—with drawings that my incredibly talented friends who’ve spent years perfecting their craft might have dazzled me with when they were in middle school. In other words, I was stunned, humbled, and encouraged all at the same time. I was doing what I never thought I could do: I was creating compositions that I was proud to show people. When I was in that space, I could let go of the part of my brain that questioned every decision I made and allow myself to just try it. And I finally saw the payoff.
For all you other Type-A personalities out there, don’t worry—I’m still a perfectionist through-and-through and proud to be one of you. But I have to say, the seemingly-crazy and far-fetched advice you’ve received over the years to “stop overthinking” and go with “whatever first comes to mind?” It might actually work, in certain times and certain places, but it works. So, consider taking that art class you never pictured yourself taking but always secretly wanted to do. Even if you don’t discover a long-lost talent, you might just challenge your brain in a healthy way and build empathy for yourself in the process.