The Creative Type
By Liz Biggs
Forget Shakespeare’s “To be or not to be …”, my question to the universe is whether ‘tis nobler to wander and ponder or to get stuff done.
The Type A people in my life love to show tangible results for their efforts and scoff at those who don’t have anything to show for themselves at the end of the day. But if you are a Type B like me, you get stuff done mostly in your head. Sometimes, your aspirations and accomplishments aren’t necessarily valued nor tangible. Creative thinking, musing, reading, writing, pondering, thirsting for knowledge … don’t get the groceries bought or dinner cooked. And they definitely don’t clean out the closets.
According to Dr. Google, one of the top traits of a Type B personality is procrastination — having a lack of sense of urgency to complete tasks. Which may explain why I have had a month to write this column but have waited until the due date to face the dreaded blank page. This drives my husband crazy; he would complete it on day one. Me, I haven’t even thought about it. There are just too many other things to think about. Like fun facts about jellyfish — did you know that these brainless, heartless, boneless creatures are capable of immortality? There is a species that can play its lifecycle in reverse, transforming from an adult medusa back to an immature polyp. Also, Frank Zappa is the namesake of one species of jelly, Phialella zappai. It is important that I know these things.
Sometimes I will start a time-consuming chore or project and can focus for a little while. But then a miserable feeling overtakes me — like I’m an animal in a cage. So, I will impulsively go outside and walk for miles, taking pictures of anything interesting or beautiful. My mama always called it “getting your ya-yas out.” I must have a lot of ya-yas to get out. And, if I haven’t spoken or connected to another human being, after about an hour I have no choice. I must talk to someone — a stranger on the street, a text to a friend. If only the stuff in the closet or drawer could talk to me, I might be more inclined to continue with the chore.
Years ago, I read the book “Quiet” by Susan Cain because one of my four children is an introvert, and I needed an instruction manual. Introverts are like aliens to me; they need solitude to recharge their battery after a party or gathering. I’m the opposite — solitude drains my battery — it is exhausting. I must interact with humans for energy and survival.
A perfect day for me is to wander and ponder. Daydream and write. Piddle and fiddle. Dilly-dally. Notice things. Read and Google stuff that I want to learn about. Randomly text my friends and family. And not be scolded for my lack of tangible results. (Of course, there are many imperfect days when I have to do all the un-fun things like taxes, work, pay bills, clean up and meet deadlines.)
The scoffing sometimes makes me wish I could be someone else. Someone less chatty and creative and more productive and organized. But I can’t. I can only be me. Not Type A. Maybe not even Type B. Just a somewhat productive Type C. (Is there a Type C? I must Google that. If there is, does it stand for curious or creative?) If there is a Type C, I bet their closets and drawers are very messy, but they work hard every day to make the world a better place. I bet they love to connect with people and make them smile. I bet they try to make this mundane world more fun and livable. Maybe they don’t have much to show for themselves at the end of the day, but they’ve worked really hard at raising kind-hearted children. Maybe they are full of flaws, but they spend their days searching for beauty in this world and sharing it with others.
