For the Love of Lists

If there’s one thing this past year had taught us, it’s the odd phenomenon of losing touch with things that were second-nature pre-pandemic. The sort of gaping emptiness of my creative drive was no surprise, but the truly shocking one for me was that I stopped making lists. 

In my early twenties, my friend Liz joked that me and her husband were the only people she knew that would carefully flip through game magazines and write down every game we wanted, sometimes in order of priority, sometimes in sections according to platform it was on. I probably took a bit further than he did since sometimes I’d even alphabetize it later. Or go through my whole game library and write those down by platform and alphabetical order.

What can I say? I loved to organize and reorganize in written form. It was less about usefulness or reference, more about satisfying anxiety or chaos.

It wasn’t the lack of anxiety that made lists less appealing. I always go through filtering phases and, optimally, creativity is the most productive and satisfying. I have very little control over which one will grip me and keep me interested. Over time, I’ve gotten better at recognizing destructive habits and filtering them better, but I’ll still go into spending spirals or time-sucking but useless repetitive tasks.

Anyone who says the pandemic didn’t untether their habits quite a bit is full of shit.

Either way, I keep gazing at the projects I’ve let pile up and glare at me from across the room. Or don’t exactly because as much as I love dolls, I don’t like their gazes trained on me or all looking in one direction for that matter. It’s not just a ‘creepy doll’ thing; it’s unnerving when my cats stare at me, when I make eye contact period and especially when someone is staring past you but looks like they’re studying you intensely. I’m straying a lot now, but these PROJECTS, aka dolls, stand in various degrees of completion and I have very slowly and inconsistently made progress.

And tonight… I dug out a notebook and made a list. It’s probably been a month since I’ve made one. That one was called ‘Bag of Monday’ and it was the start of knocking out about five procrastinated goals. And three total bullshit ones that just made me laugh (like, scream at the sun). I made two tonight actually, dully titled ‘MAXIM’ and ‘MENA’, who are my so-called ‘grail dolls’ or my absolute most-coveted dolls. But unlike most thing I do, straight to the point.

I wrote down the types of armor I did templates for, followed by what materials I’ll use and options for decorating. I drew some loose drawings but nothing specific since it’s less helpful in the creative process to be restrained to a set design when I’m not 100% certain. Certainty usually comes with confidence while working with and testing the materials by hand.

His is fairly straightforward. The pieces are cut already, the fabrics laid out, just needed to make simple points so I don’t rush and miss steps relying on a certain order.

Hers is a pain in the ass. It’s all elaborate trim, different gauges of wire, tons of shiny jewelry and dangling chains. Things to set with clips then glue with jewels, drape with fabric. Rings to clamp, wire to twist into shape. Her wig will need beads weaved in, braids carefully plaited, headdress completed. Some steps either get done first or become a pain later. She is layers and details and she’s going to look jaw-droppingly gorgeous (even though her character absolutely despises the rigidity of luxury and perfection).

So I labored through the awkward formation of these lists, both remembering the calm of the task but the tension of task-ordering. And… it feels so normal again. It was like tearing the training wheels off and careening down a steep hill, relying more on gravity to propel you than skill, but the results were anything but a broken heap at the bottom.

I think neglect is an important but frustrating necessity for me. I really have to push too hard, want it too badly, cry because I can’t have it, give up too long and try it again with the cynicism that it’s gone forever to ever hope of getting it back. And like actual famine and hunger, maybe there is a point of no return. I haven’t run into it yet but I always fear it. Maybe that fear has to remain to ensure it’s even possible to restore it. If you can truly say good riddance to a dream, a passion, and never look back, I guess you won’t miss it at all.

Kinda wish my brain worked like that. Sometimes I’ll watch a cooking show and cry over a cat I had that’s been dead for decades. It’s all in there, my life, mostly lost to memory on demand but slamming into the shaky gates at any old time. I don’t shed old dreams. Sure, I don’t want to grow up and be a lifeguard, an archaeologist or a marine biologist anymore but sometimes those facets of myself are reborn through characters I draw or write or craft.

Sometimes the only way to sort these chaotic halls of memory is to make lists.

So welcome back, old friend. You were missed.