Follow the Fire

No matter what!

Follow the Fire

“STOP FOLLOWING YOUR PASSION AND GET A FUCKING JOB!!!”

This was not the first time I’d received a text of this genre, nor is it likely to be the last.

The only difference was my response. Or rather, lack thereof.

In the past, when hit with accusations of selfishness, irresponsibility, delusion, and being “disconnected from reality,” I would automatically shift into please & appease mode. Apologizing for prioritizing my passion, promising practicality, and offering accommodations for my intractable weirdness and lack of natural marketability.

But fresh off a 12-week intensive Creative Recovery circle based on Julia Cameron’s The Artist’s Way, heading into a year-long version (both co-hosted by Alysa Escobar &

Elizabeth Shepley

of Owl Create), I was somehow able to allow these poisoned arrows of blocked-creativity-resentment to sail right through me.

They didn’t bounce off, exactly. They hit the intended target, and they still fucking hurt. A lot. But they didn’t stick, as they had in the past. They just… passed on by. As did I.

You see, my word of the year is Devotion. So abandoning my mission in order to more convincingly perform normativity was not an option.

Besides which, I have learned through painful experience that if I don’t have the fire for it, it ain’t gettin’ done. Period.

In “Lighting the Spark,” (now the introduction to my book Spark Genius: Creative Flow Unleashed), I tell the story of how and why I changed, not just my dissertation topic, but my entire area of study, halfway through my Ph.D. program.

Spoiler alert: I had lost the fire for my original focus, and discovered a new spark that could not, would not be ignored.

But this story is not that story. This one’s about my kid.

Never / Enough

My daughter's name is Aria.

You know, like a solo in an opera.

I would say "I named my daughter Aria," but that isn't, strictly speaking, true.

What actually happened is that she visited me in a dream when I was a teenager and said, "Hi Mom, it's me, Aria."

Keep in mind, this was the 90's, when Aria wasn't on the top 1,000 list of baby names, let alone the top 10. But I knew, from that time on, that my firstborn child would be a girl, and that she would be called Aria.

What I didn't know at the time, and wouldn't learn until Aria was 3 years old and able to string full sentences together, was that the name actually had nothing to do with music, but was, in fact, the name of the planet where she'd lived her most recent lifetime. It was on Aria (which she pronounced "Awia" because r's are hard for a 3 year old) that she'd been recruited for an important mission here on Earth, the details of which she'd forgotten, as she knew she would.

"So you're named after a planet?" I asked, trying to play it cool even though my head was on the verge of exploding.

She shook her small, blonde, cherub-cheeked head, "On Awia, we don't need names," she explained matter-of-factly, "we know who we talking to because we talk diwectwy into da mind. So we all Awia."

Which may explain the spate of kids named "Aria" being born all at the same time here on Earth. But I digress.

Point is, because she's called Aria, and because everyone in her family can effortlessly sing on key, the world, and Aria, had great expectations for her as a vocalist.

But while my baby girl loved to sing, and would do so, loudly, at any opportunity, my poor little munchkin could not carry a tune in a steel-reinforced bucket.

In the 3rd grade, as part of an after-school musical theatre program, she managed to cry her way into a public performance of "Never Enough" from The Greatest Showman.

Knowing how challenging that song is for anyone to pull off, let alone a tone-deaf 3rd grader, I offered her some vocal coaching in hopes of helping her avoid the abject humiliation I feared would follow.

She agreed, but after just a few minutes of practice, she gave up.

She didn't have the fire for it, and so lacked the requisite motivation to push through the pain of the process.

I wish I could tell you that the performance went just fine, regardless. But honestly? It was even more of a train wreck than I'd anticipated. We're talking visible cringing and audible wincing, even from an audience of supportive parents and peers.

Lesson: learned.

Karen's Question

Fast forward to the fall of 2023. Now in 7th grade, Aria had just performed in her school play--a small role but one she really threw herself into and played to the hilt--when her director, Karen, cornered me.

"How's Aria's singing?" she asked me, point blank.

As a lifelong Thespian, I understood the subtext immediately: this could only mean that Karen was considering Aria for a lead role in the spring musical, Amélie.

I also understood why. Not only had Aria just lit up the stage with her passion for performing, she was perfect for the role of Young Amélie, both in looks and personality.

So the only remaining question was the one Karen had just asked me.

Trouble is, I had the same question. Could she pull it off?

"Aria's singing is a work in progress," I answered as honestly and diplomatically is I could manage on the spot, "I'm committed to helping her improve, and she gets better all the time."

Karen nodded, satisfied, and disappeared into the crowd.

When I told Aria about that interaction, she looked simultaneously elated and stricken.

Taking my hand in both of hers, she spoke in a voice I hadn't heard in quite some time:

"Mom, I need your help. I really, really want this."

Enfolding her in a hug, I told her, "If you commit to the process and keep showing up for it, you can do anything."

Over the next few weeks, I watched her do exactly that.

She picked a song that was age-appropriate and dynamic enough to show her range without presenting too much of a vocal challenge: "Quiet," from Matilda the Musical. She practiced relentlessly and consistently came to me for coaching, not the other way around. And every time, she showed up ready to listen and learn.

I was stunned at the accuracy she was able to achieve after just a couple of sessions, not to mention the emotional depth with which she imbued the song. Soon she was giving me goosebumps and bringing tears to my eyes with every recitation.

Most importantly, I watched her grow in confidence and self-trust. She made herself a promise, and she kept it. And she knew, whatever happened at the audition, that she could walk away proud.

When asked how the auditions went, Aria relayed casually that Karen had wiped her eyes afterward and commended her choice of material.

This was later confirmed when Karen emailed me, saying, "Aria was amazing!! I cried. Her singing and her acting were both absolutely phenomenal. I turned to [the assistant director] and said, 'Oh yes, she is Amélie!' So proud of her!"

You and me both, Karen. You and me both.

She rocked that role, and has been following her fire ever since.

Have You Got the Fire?

I tell you this story not to brag about my kid, or even my coaching skills, but to remind you that you, too, can do anything.

If, and only if, you have the fire for it.

The fire is that spark that lights you up from the inside and motivates you to keep going, even when the going gets rough. That flame of excitement mixed with terror that lets you know: I'm scared because I care.

If you don't have the fire, you won't finish.

And that's okay. Not everything is for you.

The sooner you recognize that you no longer have the fire for a project, a relationship, a job, a career, etc. (or admit to yourself that you never really did, you just wanted to because it would be so convenient to have the fire for whatever opportunity happened to present itself at the time) and refocus your resources to wherever your fire actually is, the better off you'll be.

Not sure where your fire is at? No worries: helping you locate it is what lights my fire!

Reply to this email for a free coaching session this month or next.

Cheers,

Dr. Odd