Field notes on thirst-quenching co-creation

Hello Reader,

After launching Famished, the spoken word album that turned poems from my book into tracks for hungry inner artists, I’ve felt empty.

I’ve experienced this strange post-launch feeling before (welcome back!) with other projects. You spend months, sometimes years, creating a piece of work, then launch it, and well, nothing really, especially at first.

I didn’t release my work into the world for fame and glory, but I thought something would shift, right? Something will happen.

But nothing happens, at least not immediately. Creating the work changes us in some way, but might not be reflected in the external (unless you’re Queen B). No firecrackers or dramatic applause.

I don’t create for attention, but I hope the work will be felt; make some kind of ripple. But life continues as usual. You wake up, make breakfast, answer emails, attend meetings, and shop for groceries.

The dust settles. Gratitude hits when friends and a smattering of strangers listen and share feedback. A sense of pride that I made the thing, no matter if or how it is received, washes over me.

We release it and set it free. BUT. We need to keep showing up for our creations. It’s tempting to move on to the next project, but the one we just launched deserves (and needs) our attention. How can we expect people to pay attention to our work if we don’t?

Fear and excitement surface when I launch a big project. Tinged with expectation (despite trying to drop it) and hope. Hope, that heart-swelling feeling, and wonder - what might happen when a piece of me floats into the cultural ether? Maybe something, maybe nothing.

Maybe the aftermath is not the best part. Co-creating Famished with Tyler Bodkins for six months was pure delight. I’ve never co-produced an album, nor have I worked with a friend to create art. It felt like play, sometimes prayer.

I’ve co-created with clients for almost two decades, but something happens when hierarchy gets replaced with mutual trust and eye-level winks. The work opens up. Possibilities yawn, stretch, and take up space.

With trust, we’re able to navigate deeper into uncertainty, where meaty creative dishes are served. Trust is a portal. It puts our ego on a shelf - the need to be right, have the best idea, or know better.

When we were close to wrapping the album, Tyler sent a new version of hungry, and a particular synth stood out, all my attention gravitating toward it instead of the vocals. It was jarring. I shared this with Tyler.

He said, “I can compose a new melody, because that’s the only solution I can see, but first, sit with it. See how you feel listening to it again tomorrow.”

His unguarded openness soothed me. There was no push or pull. I agreed, listening to the track the following day, and the synth was balanced.

Apparently, I was not able, for whatever reason, to fully hear the track before. I’m not sure I would have easily acquiesced if Tyler pushed back. That’s trusting each other and our process.

We’re creative equals, just two humans on a rock creating together to make a difference. Maybe not everyone creates to make an impact, but the people I work with do. And that’s premium unleaded for my creativity.

Real creative collaboration births things that surprise the heck out of us. Work that has its own pulse, its own hunger. We stop grasping for control and start catching what wants to land.

The work gets bigger than either of us imagined. Messier too. More alive. We’re midwifing something that was waiting to be born, but needed two sets of hands to pull it into the world.

When you’re really in it with someone, bringing your whole creative selves and trusting what emerges, you realize the best ideas don’t belong to anyone. They belong to the space between you. They often come from another source that’s hard to label MINE (unlike my t-shirts at 4-H camp).

There’s something intoxicating about creating from this place of not-knowing together; about building something neither of us could have conceived alone.

More than going out to dinners or partying, I want to spend time co-creating with my friends. It brings us closer together. We talk more, gel in unexpected ways, and bring ideas into being.

It’s a really interesting place to be - to knit closer together through creativity and have a blast while doing it. Sometimes, recruiting more people into the mix, building on what came before.

I have visions of future collabs, and I can think of nothing better than making art and building brands with my friends. Most of my clients have entered the friend zone. Maybe because there’s something intimate about creating together. Especially when we’re deep in, with intuition, curiosity, and trust in our studio. It’s charged, alive, and fun.

This realization adds a rich dimension to my relationships. Being intoxicated by our creativity instead of alcohol. Having a shared, almost spiritual experience without the hangover, besides the one that comes post-launch.

I used to crave the false intimacy alcohol provided. A fragile, fleeting connection. An attachment style passed down through generations. One that gave you the feeling of being close without the risk of hurt, because it wasn’t real.

Creating together?

Now that’s the real high.

Keep creating,