In Defense of Celebrating Art
this, too, matters
The week before my book edits are due, I begin dreaming about how I will mark the occasion. How can I possibly celebrate two whole years of writing, revising, doubting, praying, thinking, tinkering, crying (so much crying!) and getting up at 5am to hunch over my laptop in the dark? Surely when I hit “send” on the final email, some sort of fanfare should follow? Is it too much to ask for a confetti cannon to shoot sparkles all over my house? (And then promptly vacuum them up?)
My conversation with Brett goes something like this:
A: I want Tuesday night to feel different.
B: What does that mean?
A: It means I do not want to eat cereal for dinner, and I do not want to be wearing sweatpants.
My poor husband, deer in the headlights, does not know what to do with this information. Especially when he realizes—and reminds me one minute later—that he is coaching our sons’ final basketball practices on Tuesday. I cannot hide my disappointment. I completely forgot about basketball. I’ll be home with Presley on Tuesday night, just like I always am. Disney movie and corndog for her; bowl of Special K cereal for me. Sweatpants for us both. (To the uninitiated, we call this “girls night.”)
On a total whim, I decide to take matters into my own hands. I ask my friend Katie to bake me a cake, and then text a handful of friends. Turning in the book on Tuesday! Cake and champagne at my house! Come anytime!
Bada-bing, bada-boom. Different.
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I am the kind of person who loves to celebrate anything and everything. Big special things. Little ordinary things. I love any excuse to throw on a dress, bust open a bottle of champagne, and light every candle in the house. I love the sound of clinking glasses and I really, really love cake.
One of the awkward parts of being a writer and working from home in your sweatpants is that if you ever want to celebrate something related to your work, you usually have to be the one to organize it. You are the sole member of the party planning committee.
I won’t lie: the act of ordering a cake for myself feels a bit Extra. A tad silly. A smidge pathetic. Then again, this isn’t about the cake. It’s not about the champagne, either.
This is about taking A Moment to honor something worth honoring. It’s about acknowledgement, and gratitude, and the importance of stopping for a split second to be fully present and grounded, to relish not in the completion of the project or even in the accomplishment itself, but in the process.
I want Tuesday night to feel different because on the heels of turning in this book, I myself—the woman, the mother, the writer—am different.
The day before I turn in my edits, I clock a 15-hour day. I am on my laptop before the sun comes up, and still on it well after the sun goes down. I barely eat. I barely stand up. I barely take my eyes off the screen.
By Tuesday morning, I am running on fumes, but still manage to skim the entire book one last time. I hit send on the email around noon, texting everyone, The eagle has landed!
Later that night, I slip on a long floral dress and run a vacuum around the house, setting out the chocolate cake my friend Katie made, adorned with real flowers and a tiny edible ladybug. She refuses to let me pay for it, insisting the cake is a gift.
I open a bottle of rosé and offer myself a generous pour into one of the beautiful amber-colored vintage glasses I recently scored from Goodwill. I take my glass into the bathroom to finish my makeup and Presley wanders in, wrapping her little arms around my legs.
When she finally lets go, she takes a step back and looks up, studying me for a minute. And then, I kid you not, she says this:
“Momma, you look different.”
She has never in her life said these words to me. I look different? How? Because I’m wearing a dress? Because I’m putting on makeup? I ask her what she means, but she just smiles at me coyly and says it again, “You look different, mommy.”
My friends arrive with gifts, because of course they do. Flowers and popcorn and champagne and cards. We sit around the table and clink our glasses in a toast. The book is done and out of my hands. I will not touch another comma. Cheers!
It occurs to me that I could have easily let this day come and go with zero fuss. Writers turn in edits all the time. Who cares? And yet, looking around the table, I cannot deny how grateful I am for this tiny celebration, for the fact that I am wearing a dress instead of sweatpants, eating cake instead of cereal, listening to the soundtrack of my own friends laughing instead of the soundtrack to Let It Go. It is everything I wanted and more: a simple, charming, slightly-out-of-the-ordinary night that feels wonderfully, marvelously different.
Last week a friend reached out.
I’ve noticed you’ve been quiet, she said.
I’m just … hibernating, I joked back.
I’ve been too embarrassed to confess the truth: that this kind of block still happens, and to me of all people, the so-called poster girl for “creating anyway.” I’ve been too embarrassed to admit that—for most of 2024—every time I’ve sat down to write, all I hear is: Who cares? Who cares? Who cares? I’ve been too embarrassed to admit that in spite of what I know to be true, I keep listening to that voice, snapping my laptop shut, and giving up before I write a single word.
For example, today is the one-year birthday of Create Anyway.
I almost didn’t mention it.
The question that actually drove me to the blank page this week: if I refuse to celebrate the one-year birthday of my book, who wins?
If I hinder and stifle my own acknowledgement of this moment, that little hissing voice robs me twice: 1) I miss out on the celebration itself, and 2) I miss out on writing about it.
Seth Godin once said, “What matters, what makes it art, is that the person who made it overcame the resistance, ignored the voice of doubt and made something worth making. Something risky. Something human.”1
We celebrate art for a million reasons: art provokes us, moves us, comforts us. Plenty of art is objectively beautiful. Art invites us to become contemplative, helping us understand life and faith and history and each other. Yet for art to exist at all, the artist must first move past the whispers of, “who cares? who cares? who cares?” For art to exist at all, the artist must first wage war against the resistance—and win.
In that sense, the act of celebrating art is always one part victory song, one part Ebenezer stone.
I had not read a single Amazon review of Create Anyway until this week2.
One year later, how could I not celebrate what God has done through this work? The permission unlocked. The sparks lit. The dreams stirred. All of that art created anyway, including my own.
Today, on the one-year birthday of my book, I will read a few more reviews. I will let the encouragement sink into my bones. I will take my children out to “cheers” our frozen yogurt cups and I will tell them that this day matters. That all of it matters: making art and celebrating art and taking a moment to pause, reflect, and thank God for every part of this messy, wild, glorious process that has—no doubt—left us different than we were before.
TL; DR — Happy birthday, Create Anyway.
And now, a few photos from the 2023 book launch party that I never shared because I didn’t want to make a fuss …
Photos by Nicolette Lovell. Favorite memories from that night:
How abundantly loved I felt (especially by Lauren and Katie, who flew in just for this).
Brett’s toast (he knew if I attempted to talk in front of everyone, I would sob).
It had been cloudy all day, despite my desperate prayers for sunshine. Right before the party started, sunlight miraculously came streaming through the windows WHILE IT RAINED. Within minutes, a giant rainbow appeared in the sky. I will never forget everyone walking into the party saying, did you know there’s a rainbow outside? It almost felt like God put it there just for me.
Everett, five minutes into the party: “I’m kind of bored. I guess I’ll read your book because I have nothing else to do.”
Carson, sitting on the step: “I am only on the first page and this book is hilarious!”
As always, you can grab Create Anyway at Amazon (best price at $16.69, currently), Target, Barnes & Noble, Bookshop, or directly through Baker Book House. Thank you so much for supporting my writing ❤️
https://seths.blog/2011/02/art-is-what-we-call/
Yes, really. More on that soon. 😉
One year ago, I was getting diagnosed with cancer. Your book was in this beautiful gift box on my desk, and every time I saw it, I felt sad. Could I still create anyway? Was there any time left? Was destruction the only thing ahead? I remember sharing it on social & whispering this secret prayer: please let this still be true for me, too.
One year ago, your book looks out at me from the shelf & it is spine-poetry all on its own. I still did, and I still am, and it matters so damn much that we celebrate every creation, every anniversary, every moments of goodness and beauty and joy along the long hard way. Thank you for every word you put out into the world and every encouragement you give to other women to do the same. You are a gift to us.
"...the act of celebrating art is always one part victory song, one part Ebenezer stone." Amen, amen, amen. In this world of endless and exponential content waiting - asking - to be consumed, your words are ones I consistently choose to consume, enjoy doing so, and walk away from feeling full and satisfied and nourished. Happiest birthday to this special book baby of yours. I am more fully myself because you chose to push past the doubt.