Literary event review
It was just a few days ago. I bought my ticket at around one for a reading of The Laws of Creativity at around seven. I liked McNally Jackson and the stark, 30-dollar difference between a ticket to Mcnally Jackson and that of the strand brought me here. I like to consider myself a creative, and somewhat of a law follower. So it seemed like a tailor-made experience for me. Like “Molly” had been etched in the top right corner, embroidered on the chest of a wool sweater.
It was 6:15pm, and my unfounded need to be usually and inappropriately early to everything was beginning to boil over. So I set off on my no more than ten-minute subway and walk commute. I arrived at 6:25, promptly. The wind was ferocious, turning my borrowed umbrella completely inside out and breaking a third of the metal clasps in the hood. My bangs stuck to my forehead like overcooked angel hair pasta. And I was the first one there. Dripping wet in the entryway.
Upstairs, there was an array of about thirty to forty chairs, covering a majority of the left wing of the second floor. A warm yellow light cascaded through the room. Being the first one there, I felt rather out of place, so I walked around the shop, pretending to read different blurbs, sometimes opening the cover to pretend to read the first page. People funneled in slowly, a group of 4 thirty-ish-year-olds spoke to the author. Another man shook his hand. They talked about their most recent respective literary accomplishments. He introduced the man to the other group of four. And I suddenly became abundantly aware that I was the only one there who was not friends with the author. And I was probably ten years younger than all of them. Was this supposed to be an intimate event for them? Was this some kind of dinner party I was suddenly intruding on? Am I the elephant-sized third wheel in this room? I started to sweat. Nonetheless, though, I figured the author actually did want people to hear his work. And whether I was a bother or not, my five dollars was probably appreciated.
The reading was quiet and intimate, similar to the book itself, and the author, who I came to learn was named Joey Ciaffone. Later I found that along with being an author, he’s a designer, and a founder. And quite a successful one at that. Which was what initially started the slow crackle of my “I hate nonfiction” wall, which was usually impenetrable. I figured some guy with decades apon decads of successful creative work could maybe teach me a thing or two about creativity.
It wasn’t churchy though. It wasn’t a droning lecture. It was sweet and personable. He spoke about what creativity is, and questioned why do we abandon it so often. Why are we as children artists? And as we grow why do we self-inflict these titles of uncreativeness apon ourselves? Though the book looked at creativity as a sort of scientific, analytical thing, it was presented in this sort of god-like, birds-eye view of art and creativity. Implying that it lives in all of us. That even in quietness creativity is there. When we make everyday choices, we are doing so with an essence of creativity. It deconstructed the idea that people are either creative or uncreative. And expressed that creativity is rather something you nurse and grow within yourself. This all-encompassing warmth brought from the text itself as well as the personality of the author completely melted my original anxiety.
I left McNally Jackson with this inexplicable feeling. It was that feeling behind your eyes when you look at a work of art. But it was like everything before me was art. In some way, I suppose it actually was.