Unfinished essays are scattered across my desk. Others are still percolating in my brain—half-formed and waiting. And some essays are hidden inside me—ones I know I will never write. Some days, everything feels too big—emotions, life, situations, every single thing. How can words express the expansiveness of what it is to be alive? 

I want to use words to explore the mysteries of being a musician, of being creative, and to make sense of the world swirling around me. I write not because I have answers, but because writing helps me think, question, and make sense of the world.

Sometimes I feel successful at doing so. On other days, not so much.

My mind often plays devil’s advocate as I write—offering counterpoints or imagined objections. I try not to offend or provoke. I carefully shape sentences, avoiding the topics I know I’ll never touch.

I realize that I do not know everything there is to know about anything. Life can’t be tied into a neat bow. I am suspicious of anyone who believes it can. A friend once told me, “Life is messy,” and I return to that phrase often. It comforts me in its simplicity and its acceptance.

While working on this essay, I came across a quote by author and activist, L. R. Knost:

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When life feels too big to handle, go outside. Everything looks smaller when you’re standing under the sky.

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I get the same feeling standing on the shore, looking out at the ocean. The vastness of the sky and ocean is humbling. It puts things into perspective. It does not minimize our struggles, but reminds us we are part of something larger.

Our lives may not feel meaningful in the grand scheme of the world. But I would argue that we are important—every one of us. Each of us makes a mark on the people and the world around us.

What is my point? Simply to acknowledge that writing is hard work? To apologize for my lack of an essay every week? Admitting that sometimes, I feel too small for the ideas I want to chase? Maybe. Or perhaps this is a pep talk—for myself, and for anyone else who finds creativity daunting.

I am reminded of Anne Lamott’s story in Bird by Bird.

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Thirty years ago my older brother, who was ten years old at the time, was trying to get a report written on birds that he’d had three months to write, which was due the next day. We were out at our family cabin in Bolinas, and he was at the kitchen table close to tears, surrounded by binder paper and pencils and unopened books about birds, immobilized by the hugeness of the task ahead. Then my father sat down beside him put his arm around my brother’s shoulder, and said, “Bird by bird, buddy. Just take it bird by bird.”

— Anne Lamott (b. 1954) American novelist and nonfiction writer

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That’s how writing works. That’s how life works.

Drop by drop. Star by star. Bird by bird.

Word by word.

We are small in the context of the entire history of the world. We are important as this is the only life we have. We inhabit both realities. Whatever creative endeavor we undertake is important. We are important.