Creative people feel omni-creative—and are!—but creativity comes in spurts if you don't focus it. You've got to let go of creative control of practically everything else (including, ultimately, The World) in order to stabilize your backdrop and seal off potential creativity leaks. "The more chunks you background," I wrote in that post, "the more propulsive you'll be in the foreground." Yielding to monotony is the ultimate counterintuitive move, but the rewards can be heady.
Perhaps an example would help.
In my 20s and 30s I aimed for, and achieved, an extremely varied life. The facade seemed richly dynamic to outside observers, but I was oppressed by remaining chunks of monotony. One can't jazz up every aspect, though I damned well tried. The result was rollickingly interesting...but also out of control.
I don't mean grown-up control—well-pressed wardrobe, neatly-potted plants, and each bite of food chewed 27 times. I had no control at all, including any basic ability to take care of myself. Or to concentrate. Or to apply discipline in a sustained manner. Such things desperately evaded my grasp. Naturally, my output suffered, but I could easily jump from failure in one sphere to a happier position in another. Or simply create a whole new sphere (Chowhound was one).
I did retain one baseline for a while that provided some gravity: music. I'd aggregated enough effort, technique, and commitment to sound reliably impressive. But I was shooting for better—for greatness—and it was frustratingly elusive. It was, as artists have complained through the ages, unpredictable. It never arrived on command, so I was inconsistent. It was torture.
I had the exciting life I'd hoped for, but paid a high price. No control of basic functionality, plus a juicy inner ribbon of artistic torture. But it sure looked exciting from the outside!
At this moment in 2025, my life has switched from one end of the telescope (The Andromeda Galaxy) to the other (a single skin cell). I live a teeny life of monotony. But I've given myself up to that monotony. There was one optional chunk: I swapped in a fresh backdrop by moving overseas. As I recently wrote, we can't determine our dramatic arcs, but a new backdrop can be swapped in. I like this one much better. Though, really, any will do (that’s why it’s “optional”).
I've achieved a static backdrop with little dramatic variation, and while that should be tough for someone of my temperament, I was lucky enough to notice the reward, which is subtle but awesome.
All this talk of "backdrops" feels convoluted. It used to comfortably boil down to a familiar concept. There was a time when it was taken for granted that artists and mystics required "peace and quiet" to do their thing.
The phrase turned archaic without our noticing. Today, it's almost meaningless. Within our hyperstimulated inner and outer lives, what would "peace and quiet" even look like? We imagine dressing in cotton tunics and moving languorously. Lots of smiling, and nary a glowing screen. A weekend fishing trip. Reading in bed all day. A (jesus christ) spa day. It's never conceived as a way of being; more of a stop-being before resuming real life. Walden's pond is a nice view to grab on our smartphone and upload to Insta.
"Peace and quiet" wasn't supposed to be a pose to strike, but now we can't conceive of any other use for the phrase. So I talk about backdrops, hawking the virtues of "monotony" out of recognition that anything not sizzlingly hot seems frostily frozen. You don't need a cotton tunic, or to act a certain way, or to give up your iPad. It's just a matter of willingly sinking into static backdrop while keeping one chunk sizzlingly super-heated.
I spent over 30 years as this disease's poster child, aiming to tinker busily with busy backdrops while also hoping to play and write at a high level. It left me haggard, frustrated, and bereft of control. I enjoyed little consistency in any context, but, man, my backdrop seemed exciting!
Now—unbelievably for those who knew me then—I've got a daily routine and the only variation I permit myself are choice of lunch venue and film to watch. I don't wear a black turtleneck, but that serves as metaphor for the swathe of volition I've foresaken.
Here’s the reward: now, when I focus on some mystery or curiosity, I find, with gleeful delight, that I can slice through it like butter—and explain it cleanly to others. It's consistent now. A steady flow. No more torture.
Is this a small life or a large one? It frames either way, but it's best to simply keep going, rather than mire with backdrops. Gifted with a really nice pair of red shoes, one is compelled to dance.
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