creativity

I have articles from the Department of Justice sitting all around my ankles, sprayed out like a fan in neat little piles. I haven’t strayed far from the computer for hours and a babysitter is attending to my daughter. A half-started and half-witted attempt to summarize the laws of Medicare fraud lies unattended on the screen in front of me as deadlines await. Deadlines that amount to paychecks, that amount to more gardening supplies and summer sundresses and art camps. I will finish it on time. I will somehow find the energy. God let me finish.

It’s not that words are hard to come by. I live in words. I both admire and abhor them. I want to stomp on them like ripe grapes and feel the juice squirting out between my toes. The problem with words is that I simply can’t escape them. I am drawn to words that make me laugh or cry or feel something different. Legal writing doesn’t invoke that same emotion, which is why I drift into my daydreams. Dreams of stories and beauty and adjective-filled rooms filled with light.

When I lie in bed at night, with dishpan hands and a tired back, my fingers tap away at some imaginary keyboard in the sky. I can hear the repetitive sound of my hands striking the letters like summer storms on a metal roof. Rapping and pelting and beating down while I’m trying to sleep or pray or just lie there in peace. I try to shake them from my head, but like the ringing in one’s ears, it’s a fool’s game.

So I keep driving to the grocery store, or to the bank drive-through. I drop off my husband’s dry cleaning and help my daughter cut out caterpillars out of yellow construction paper. But sentences keep forming like ribbons out of my brain, some constant output I can’t seem to shut off. My daily life is so busy I don’t often do anything with them. They are just mental litter, thrown away like discarded trash. There are times I just want words to leave me be. To allow me to sit silently without thinking, or hearing that incessant tapping of the keys, or the phrasing of sentences. I want to scream at them to shut up already. Sometimes, I just want to sit and not think of all those stupid, stupid words.

But we all have our gifts, whether we are paid for them or not. We all carry with us some unyielding urge to create, albeit in different forms. I firmly believe that God chose to give each of us the gifts that we were meant to have, and there’s little way around it. According to Exodus, the Lord told Moses that he chose Bezalel, son of Uri, to oversee the task of building the tabernacle. “I have filled him with the Spirit of God, with skill, ability and knowledge in all kinds of crafts — to make artistic designs for work in gold, silver and bronze, to cut and set stones, to work in wood, and to engage in all kinds of craftsmanship.” Exodus 31:3. Paul explained in 1 Corinthians 12 that all the gifts we have been given “are the work of one and the same Spirit, and he gives them to each one just as he determines.”

I may, or may not, ever get paid for my words. The novel that took me years to finish, with nights of sobbing and mornings of great exaltations, might never be read by the New York Times or by a single woman in the suburbs of Chicago. The words that plague my sleep and dominate my fingers might be small to most. But they are ultimately from God. They need to be used and cultivated so that when they spring forth from my head, they are as tulips rather than dandelions.

I thank God for words, even though sometimes they feel like a burden. But when the burden is for a higher good, and the purpose so great, can one really complain?

Lord, please let my words and the aching of my heart be acceptable to you, in your sight, and in your most perfect glory. Thank you for these ribbons that flow from my thoughts. Help me piece and string them all together as jewelry fit for a king.

I am both revolted and thrilled at being a lawyer.

There are times I am confident I chose the right profession. Instead of saying I’m a project manager or I do consulting work for a computer software company (yawn/bore/snooze), I get to say I’m an attorney. That means I’m smart. Tough. It stands for something. I get to wear heels and I’m not easily threatened. I look forward to a good adversary and can hold my own in a swearing match. And I’ll be damned if I didn’t settle an entire case once for $500 and a ream of copy paper.

And yet.

My heels are not from Neiman’s. I got them at TJ Maxx with the size 10 sticker still firmly implanted on the inside of the heel. I don’t read the Wall Street Journal, although I used to subscribe and marvel at those dot-art pictures, flipping through it to find a movie review or a piece on sea lions. But all I found were boring articles on the economy. Then I realized it’s called the Wall Street Freaking Journal and such articles are actually important to some (boring lame uninspired) people. I dropped my subscription.

In my free time, instead of going to the theatre or golfing, I get online to check out what Angelina Jolie wore to the Oscars. I like to search for hidden treasure at Goodwill and think of all the recipes I can make that contain pumpkin. In law school, I went on a hunt for antique mayonnaise jars the day before my Taxation of Estates final. My study group just shook their head as if I went on some trek in the Amazon. “What?” I said as I unscrewed a rusty lid and stuck my nose inside to see if the jar still smelled.

There is just something about law that’s flat-out boring. A few months ago, I sat all day long in a freezing cold conference room staring at presentations about healthcare reform. The speakers were just giddy about the subject matter and pranced about the podium rubbing their hands together with glee, espousing their opinions on section 501(r) and whether the government would come out with new regulations and – oh hell. I was focusing on some lady’s hair and didn’t keep track of the rest. I was impressed with their enthusiasm, though. All top-of-their-class with great hair and Washington internships. I can imagine them all conversing at a dinner party, giggling and drinking Bordeaux. I worked for Representative Williams! Really I did! I have an ornament to prove it! Congressional Aide I was! Bloody hell!

I kept pretending to take a call so I could step outside into the lobby. I gave men around me that why can’t my office just leave me alone, already? look while I pressed my phone to my ear like I couldn’t hear and eased out of the room. We were across the street from the capital; it’s not like we were in Somalia with questionable cell phone reception. In reality, I was calling my secretary to tell her that I was dangerously close to letting my bar card expire and having a go at a juggling career. I wondered if she had eaten lunch. Did she have a sandwich? Was there rain in the forecast? Did she say she had ham? After the fifth call, my secretary told me to get off the phone and go back in.

“You’re starting to become annoying,” she said.

I trudged in and plunked down in my chair, opening spam emails to pass the time. Did you know Frontgate was having a bedding sale and The Body Shop offered free shipping? Fascinating! I was so bored I texted everyone I knew with little random statements, such as “sitting at a CLE!” or “you having a good day?” or “I’d like to slit my wrists because I chose the most boring career on the planet and perhaps I should re-evaluate my life here on earth and buy nicer shoes.” But everyone else was busy or distracted or annoyed and didn’t respond. I sat there rubbing my temples and smiling at the man next to me who said this was one of the best conferences yet. “Oh yes,” I said. “So informative. Did you know about those relaxed jurisdictional rules? Insane!” We all giggled and adjusted our glasses and looked back at the speaker. I tried to not focus on his freakishly thick hair, but let’s face it. My focus was helplessly lost.

All the folks that talk at these conferences are from big mega-firms. They eat and breathe this stuff. They wouldn’t think of pondering whether strawberry and fig go together for the purposes of making jam or whether they should make seventeen hand-made birthday party invitations for a five-year-old. Maybe I did choose the wrong career. Maybe I missed my calling.

But then, I go back to work the next day, with a night full of rest and a mug full of strong coffee. I listen to the methodical voices on NPR and inch up north through rush hour traffic. When I get to the office, I have four voicemails from people who need my advice. I have emails from folks who care what I think, who want me to help them answer their questions. Edit their letters. Review their contracts. Ease their minds. No one cares about my shoes, although today I am rockin Ann Klein Leopard-print peek-a-boos.

I laugh when someone tells me they will sue, because I know they are lying and instead simply forgot to take their bipolar meds. I have a head that’s bursting with knowledge about causation and limits of liability and risk. I am a professional, and can go head-to-head with others because I’ve earned the right. Then, at that very moment, I know I’m meant to be an attorney. Those speakers are dull because they choose to be dull. I celebrate Wednesdays and send out quotes from Joan Rivers via email and shop for old jars. And if I need something from the conference, I can always look through the powerpoint slides. I suppose that, despite hating legal conferences, I like what I do. After all, when someone says they’ll have their lawyer call me, I get a tingly feeling in my stomach. “Go ahead,” I say through a crooked grin. “I welcome the call.”

Here’s to being a lawyer. Go ahead. Sue me.