My Creative Evolution

Age 1.  At my 1-year-old birthday party, I stood on the table beside my cake and sang ‘Happy Birthday’ to myself along with the rest of my family. Yes, I knew all the words, as well as the melody. Firstborn 💪🏻. [And what about those thighs?]

Age 4.  Dad taught me to draw by having me sketch a dog smoking a pipe. Dad respects the fundamentals, so he kept it simple, not to mention I was only four years old.

I drew that dog on everything (including my closet wall) until I later began drawing things that made my teachers and parents wish I would go back to drawing a dog smoking a pipe.

Kindergarten.  In Miss Campbell's class, we performed a skit to Little Bunny Foo Foo (a song my father swears he wrote), and I made a poster of the forest monster that the Fairy Godmother deems a 'goon,’ the fate of Little Bunny Foo Foo's nefarious actions.

My version of said goon resembled a giant waving mass of pubic hair with eyeballs, mittened hands, a smile, and large feet. This was the inception of my more advanced artistic abilities.

Age 6.  On more days than my parents will likely admit, I embarked on a solo reenactment of a supposed day in the life of Huckleberry Finn. I have no idea why (other than loving Richard Thorpe's movie) but I remember being happy in this make-believe world. Barefoot, my jeans rolled up, a knapsack I made from a branch and one of my dad's handkerchiefs, and the placement of my stuffed animal, Tony upon my shoulder (whose species remains unknown to this day), I meandered back and forth along the dirt path that my dog, Bippy, had forged as a trail along the fence line of our backyard, personifying the rogue Mark Twain character and talking to myself. I was in my own world, whistling with a glee.

I'm certain that if autism had the foothold it has today, between my prodigious 1-year-old intonation of Happy Birthday and my desire to be alone a lot, someone would have wanted to place me somewhere on the spectrum. Instead, I was just deemed "the different one."

Age 7. I loved my Big Chief writing tablet. I credit this for my fine penmanship (and Ms. Sparks and Ms. Garwood who were sticklers about cursive writing techniques).

When I was younger, I was lauded for the beauty of my handwriting. Today, I smile confoundingly as I watch people squint their eyes as they read a birthday card I’ve given them or get wide-eyed trying to decipher an instructional note.

My writing today does not emulate the graceful cursive flow practiced incessantly within my Big Chief tablets.

Though unlined Moleskines are my tablet of choice today, Big Chief remains my unmistakable first love.

Age 7.  My sister, Julie, my cousin, Kelly, and I performed many dramatic dance moments in Joan Lang's Dance Studio, but the most memorable of our recitals was our performance of The Elephant Song. According to my parents, grandparents and my aunts and uncles, it was the most entertainingly painful thing to watch. We apparently just danced our own willy-nilly choreography with our arms dangling in front of us like elephant trunks and argued on stage about where we were supposed to line up during the entire performance. I'm sure I was completely out of my body, sort of like those times when I would perform in parades for Joan Lang's studio in an itchy blue costume that cut into my armpits and made tossing a baton nearly impossible without cringing in agonizing pain. I still wonder whether Joan Lang loved or loathed children.

At age nine, I put my tap shoes down and refused to ever again dress like a chicken or a can-can girl or any other torturous character in Joan's ensemble. I can honestly say I hated dance. It's ironic since now I'd give away my nonexistent first-born child for the chance to compete on Dancing With the Stars.

Age 7.  My sister Julie and I choreographed a complex theatrical performance where we reenacted all commercials with singing parts. Back in the 70s, when the jingle graced every brand, there were many such commercials. 

Our stage was atop an outhouse at our cousin's cabin in the Rocky Mountains or on the roof of our family camper.  It became a yearly ritual through which my parents were loving and patient enough to sit. And clap. And demand encores. God love them.

Also , at Age 7, I discovered Dr. Seuss's books and genius. Though I had no idea at that time what anapestic tetrameter was, I recognized that the melodic cadence of Seuss's books created a pleasantly dichotomous feeling of relaxation and excitement inside me.  

Age 8.  My best friend Gina and I created a worm farm out of one of my mom's terrariums. It got really interesting when we began dissecting the worms to "learn more about their inner anatomical functions." I list this as part of my creative evolution mostly because I think any person infatuated with terrariums has a pretty good creative spirit, not to mention that we had to be pretty creative to cut cross-sections of a worm with a butter knife.

Age 9.  I took the confirmation name Francis (for my favorite saint, St. Francis of Assisi). Our parish priest, Fr. Coleman, demanded I change the 'i' to an 'e' on my confirmation stole due to the fact that I am a girl. I refused while getting a little help from my dad in negotiating with Father. 

Needless to say, I proudly paraded down the aisle with my felt fabric sewn stole, donning the name FRANCIS. I'm certain my parents have since defined this moment as some fierce foreshadowing of my adult life.

Age 9, again. I took guitar lessons in Room 3 of St. Mark’s Catholic Church. Proud Mary was the first song I learned due to its simple chord changes. I’m sure my parents, to this day, cringe when they hear that song. It’s the only thing I strummed on my guitar for months. No doubt they wanted to send me rollin’ on the river.

Also age 9.  I was fascinated by Bob Ross and how easily he could create a landscape that entailed, mountains, streams, trees... and birds. I was equally frustrated by the fact that I could not easily replicate his landscapes despite the fact that he mades it look incredibly easy (birds or no birds).  

Final Age 9. My dad shared with me a conversation that affected my entire life. Little did I know that that conversation would become the premise of my first published book.

Age 10.  Daily, I confiscated my mom's cassette tape player, locked myself in the hall bathroom, and sang to Helen Reddy and Mama Cass in the mirror (hairbrush mic and all). My favorite thing was to make up my own harmonies. This marked the very moment that "making my own kind of music" became a soul-imperative.

Also at age 10.  I co-wrote my first song with my best friend, Gina. We wrote the music to guitar chords and titled it Love Is Like, with lyrics far more mature than our young, innocent years, including things like "waking in the morning" with that special someone. 

My Mom swears Gina and I spent more time bickering about what key it should be played in than ever actually performing the song. Gina and I still belt out a few lines of the song together on those far too-rare occasions when I'm home in Kansas City for a holiday or, God forbid, a funeral.

Also at 10.  I sang a rendition of Don Henley and Bernie Leadon’s Witchy Woman by replacing the 'w' of witchy with a 'b.' I chose to do this special interpretation in the form of a living room concert for a group of my parents' friends visiting our home for a fondue party. Living room concerts were thereafter forbidden anytime we had company.

Age 10 again.  I always liked the snowflake cut-out assignments we did in grade school as we neared the Christmas holiday. I also enjoyed doing my own art project of cutting half mushroom-like images out of varying colors of folded construction paper. I never understood why Ms. Shafer one day scooped up all my cut-outs, saying, "Not these again," and hurriedly threw the whole lot of them into the trash, anxiously uttering an emphatic "Jesus, Mary and Joseph" under her breath. 

It was several years later that I realized that I'd been cutting out baskets full of multi-colored mini penises. I bet that little exercise could tell psychologists way more about me than a Rorschach blot test.

Age 11.  I think I experienced Stendhal syndrome when seeing the statue of the Sacred Heart at the top of the hill of the Mother Cabrini Shrine in Colorado, but I was likely just dizzy from running the whole way up the stairs. The same dizzying feeling happened again when I stepped foot into the Rothko Chapel for the first time in 2002, but I didn't run any stairs that day. Entering the Rothko Chapel and dropping to one's knees isn't likely unique to me, but I'll never forget that feeling of weepy weakness while witnessing such beauty.

One of my previous girlfriends thought I experienced Stendhal syndrome when seeing her naked body before my eyes for the first time, but we later realized I had food poisoning.

Grade 6.  I won consecutive speech contests for my speech that essentially makes fun of the author of the Atkins Diet, Robert Atkins, to the point of predicting that he would die from eating so much meat. When he died years later, I felt hideous.

Age 13.  I began doodling my signature abstracts, later learning from a shaman that my art was a necessary monologue from my soul and that not engaging in such artwork causes a great disconnect with my spirit, which can lead to stagnation in my life. Holy crap. I’ve been drawing them ad-nauseum ever since.

Also, at 13,  Gina and I produced a photo shoot complete with various locations and respective scenes. This photoshoot aimed to create a visual reel to send to Farrah Fawcett to let her know what huge fans we were and convey our luscious beauty.

With one of us on set displaying our best bedroom-eyed playboy poses, the other art directed and captured the essence of teenage beauty through the lens. We thought we would get a call from producers anxious to have us appear on an episode of Charlie's Angels, but to no avail.

I always thought we didn't hear back from Farrah or her crew because I had just cut my hair and looked too much like a little boy. For years, I harbored the guilt of possibly disheveling mine and Gina's one chance at fame.

Also at 13.  I realized that I not only love the work of Dr. Seuss but that my own brain may very well work like his. I began making rhyming poems for Mother's Day and Father's Day cards for thank-you notes and special gifts. The cadence was incredibly Seuss-esque. My anapestic tetrameter was so good that I began contemplating the possible reality of reincarnation.  

Age 14.  I discovered M.C. Escher, and my adolescent brain began to delightfully warp realities into engagingly imaginative worlds that cleverly morph away the angst of being a teenager– a teenager who knows that she is "different."

Today, Escher drawings, though still fascinating, just make me dizzy.

Age 15.  I sang my first public solo in my high school talent show. The only other time I've seen my parents more surprised (they had no clue I could sing that well, which is confounding since my singing in the hall bathroom constantly brought about its share of urgent door poundings when one of the other five persons in the house needed to use the bathroom urgently).

The only other time I witnessed my parents’ mouths agape in shock and awe was when I shoulder-plowed my sister's bedroom door off its hinges in an angry attempt to pummel her.

Age 16.  I starred as Golde in St. Mary's High School's performance of FIDDLER ON THE ROOF. As I received my standing ovation and the audience noise grew louder as I bowed, I thought that if I died at this very moment, I'd die happy. I'm glad I didn't.

Junior year.  I won class president after mocking up the model of the perfect president (the entire idea was stolen from my mom's version of the perfect mother for her Mother's Day celebration in our parish. Truth be told, Mom authored the concepts for several of my creative endeavors, mostly because I would come to her the night before in angst that I had waited until the last minute to begin my project). Thank you, Mom. This entire Creative Chronology is dedicated to you.

Senior year.  I was crowned prom queen (I think someone must have fixed the ballot because Renee Wozniak should have won it, hands down). I include this as a creative endeavor because managing to dodge the lips and hands of my poor date, Aaron, took some real creative ingenuity. Sorry, Aaron. At least you have that "Hey man, I went to prom with the lesbian prom queen" story to tell.  Right?! ; )

Age 19.  In my freshman year of college, my English professor called me into her office on a Saturday.  I was a bit afraid and even more excited because I had a massive crush on her, and I was admittedly hoping it was a personal beckoning. That was not the case.

As I entered her office, I saw stacked on her desk every book listed in my bibliography—and then some–for the paper I had just turned in about Michelangelo's art and its effect on me. She disclosed that she had spent the past week scouring numerous books to find out where I found the words she was convinced I had not crafted as my own, having presumed with certainty that I had written my paper criminally plagiaristic.  

It is the first time I consciously recall feeling blatantly and wrongly accused of something for which I was absolutely not guilty (though, as a child, I would willingly take the blame for something my sister or brothers did), and stood my ground, declaring, "You are absolutely wrong. Everything in that paper, except where I've credited a previous writer, is my own." I wanted to dare her to continue her pursuit to find me guilty.  

Then, she smiled and calmly responded, "I know. This paper is so good I couldn't believe a freshman in college wrote it. You are an excellent writer, and I hope you will continue perfecting your writing skills. Well done, Ms. Arthur."  At which point she handed me my paper with a huge 'A' in the top right corner.  

I took my first college 'A' and sauntered down the hall feeling mildly victorious and thinking, "Could I someday be a writer?!  Nah, I'm not really that creative."

I changed my thoughts to coming up with other reasons I could again be summoned into Ms. Hottie Professor's office on a Saturday.

Age 21. I wrote a story about a very unusual 20-mile run during which I was faced with gnawing my panties off. My siblings and cousins used to often tell this story at family gatherings (especially if one of our family members is introducing someone new into the family). You can read it here. 

Age 22.  I qualified for the Boston Marathon by placing 8th overall female finisher on Swope Park’s hilly asphalt course in the Kansas City Marathon.  

As I trained 70 to 90 miles per week after this victory to ensure that I actually beat my Boston qualifying time, I suffered severe tendonitis that later elevated to an acute injury, which reared its head with a vengeance at mile 6 of the 26.2 mile Boston course.

At that moment, I was faced with establishing a new goal; rather than beat my qualifying time, I would instead not allow myself to walk or stop despite the excruciating pain throbbing throughout my right knee with every foot strike.

I was dejected beyond belief. All my training had been for naught. My family and best friend were in Boston to witness me running my personal best but instead witnessed me hobbling pathetically down urban avenues and rural Massachusetts roads. My dream of continuing a professional running career suddenly felt unreachable and idiotic. I accomplished my goal of not walking but suffered severe damage to my knee.

I wrote a 90-stanza rhyming poem depicting the course of events and the spectrum of emotions I experienced during this time. My poem ranges from expressing the extreme hilarity of driving the Boston roads with my incredibly funny aunts to the doting hospitality from nuns while residing in one of Cardinal Law's many mansion homes (yes, the same Cardinal we all heard so much about when the Church's pedophilia scandal finally broke), reveling in the pride I could see on the faces and in the spirits of my wonderful parents as their daughter prepared to accomplish yet another goal on her list, and the tragic personal dismay I experienced in having to modify my personal best goal due to injury ultimately. I gifted this poem to all of my family and friends who made the journey to Boston to support me.

Sadly, I think out of all 90 stanzas, the one most of us do our best to try and forget is the one where I described experiencing the guy standing behind me on the subway 'T' whose erection, due to such sardine-like proximity on crowded public transit, kept poking me in the lower back every time the train would shift. It’s not something one easily forgets.

At age 27, I discovered Nick Bantock and my life was never the same. I wanted to conceive of the types of characters in his books, write, and create art like him, but I mostly desired the romance and adventure he so beautifully depicts in his writing.

Age 28. I wrote an 8-week children/teen course that I taught in Austin. Later, I was asked to create a train-the-trainer program so others could teach it around the country. That terrified me. I shelved the project, and it collects dust to this day, awaiting its resurrection.

I drew the logo for the course, and its stages of evolution have meaning. Drawing hands, as you can see, is not my strong suit.

Age 30. I studied with a Feng Shui master for a semester. From that point forward, I obsessed over situations such as what direction I sat in during client meetings and became skilled at dodging ‘killing arrows’ from knives and forks pointed in my direction, even if I had to covertly redirect them while seated across from someone at a restaurant.

Today, I practice minimalism so extreme that Marie Kondo would enter my condo and sob at the lack of perceived joy. Every quadrant of my home entails the exact corresponding color and element of the Bagua.

Age 30.  I created a Mark Rothko-esque painting for my bedroom. It was so convincing that my friends thought I was collecting Rothko.  (Tee hee)

Age 31.  After a ghost inhabited my home (no, seriously), I painted a version of the Kodoish symbol to ward off any potentially dark entities that might be further tempted to enter my abode. My friends wished I would go back to painting canvases resembling Rothko.

Age 33. I wrote a short story called EIGHT STEPS TO EVERYWHERE, depicting how I maneuvered (and thrived) for two years in a 250-square-foot garage apartment in Austin, TX. I sent the story and images of my apartment to a design magazine focusing on small living spt like my chenille bedspread, so the story never ’he story never ran.

Age 34.  I created a series of short stories titled BECAUSE, with each volume comprising my views on issues that troubled me (and proud use of title ellipsis). Titles include: BECAUSE… NO ONE BEATS YOU UP FOR LIKING CHOCOLATE ICE CREAM (my incredulous response to people who harm or alienate others solely for having differing beliefs from their own), or BECAUSE… WE SHOULD ALL LIVE IN GLASS HOUSES (stories conveying my personal perspectives on transparency and openness), etc.

At age 37. I discovered the artwork of Jean-Michel Basquiat. I didn't realize how close I would actually come to him until 14 years later.  

Age 40.   I drew full architectural plans (not to scale) of my someday dream home. I will build that home someday (to scale).

Also, at 40.  I began making a nice living by creating videos and online product suites for individuals and organizations committed to creative and courageous expression in the world.

Age 45.  I was on a plane ride from Kansas City to Seattle when a woman leaned across the aisle while I was doodling my abstract soul art and asked me how much a single commission of my art would cost. We exchanged contact information, and I disclosed that I am not an actual artist. Later, she emailed me and implied that my studio has to be an incredibly peaceful yet vibrant space that she would someday love to visit. I created an art studio in my office one week later.  

Age 48.  I created my blog to convey the beauty that can and does exist between an open-minded, free-spirited lesbian and her utterly indoctrinated Catholic family. Everyone should be blessed to have a family as loving and close-knit as mine. If I had a superpower, I would gift everyone with the experience of love and inclusiveness that is the essence of my family. Until I do, I’ll share them with you here.

Age 55.  I created a podcast that focuses on the fact that Division Is Optional by recording conversations with my dad about things for which we have extremely differing perspectives.

After age 55. I wrote that book I could not have forecasted at age nine, my first published book. You can find it here.

Today, I continue to create multimedia narratives for people and brands. I am a storyteller by nature, so every project and every day of work feels like a vacation to me. I love the freedom, creativity, and collaboration of my work.

Someday, I aim to amass a hefty list of award-winning accomplishments in writing and film. I wish my 5th grade teacher, Ms. Shafer, were still on the planet to witness such accomplishments. That poor woman went on to her next life adventure believing my only artistic talent was replicating cut-out penises.