Or really anywhere, for that matter.
When one has a creative idea, like for a painting or a sculpture, or a novel, or it even could be just a simple little sketch of what you want your kitchen to look like, that idea is a like tiny baby. More accurately, it’s like a fetus in the womb, a whisper of life, and it needs care and safety to come into being.
I think most artists learn this at some point in their life, and they become reluctant and avoidant when it comes to discussing the next “thing” they intend to create. Putting an idea for a work of art into words makes it “something”, but only the act of doing can make it real.
Talking about it sometimes just kills it.
And, I think you all know these types. We all have them, most often and unfortunately at work. They come up behind us at the water-cooler uttering, “Yeah, I hear there’s a big newzealandsouthswell coming, dude!, going out?” Oh hell, my cover is getting blown, I think. But also, “going out?” what kind of dumb question is that? And, for the love of god, why do they make New Zealand south swell into one long word? I turn and head straight back to my work station.
Or then there’s the one that, during a break in a meeting, will rattle off the long winded brag-y story of the family surf trip to Samoa, and how beautiful it was, and the warm water, and the exotic smells, etc, but wait for it, because the punchline comes at the end: “actually we didn’t really surf much, it wasn’t very conducive for it.” Which translates to: “the surf was so fucking big with such ugly square tubes scraping off the dry reef, there was no way my weekend-warrior ass was even paddling out!” I walk away silently and hope the cringe-face I have doesn’t show.
Here’s another one, “Oh wow, such beautiful weather we’re having, too bad there’s no waves!” I just smile, and try my best to make my face look very quizzical, so it says: “what are waves?, and why would you want them?” Then I do a half swallowed fake laugh and change to subject to gardening.
Dude? Bro? No. Do not try to talk to me about surf at work. Surf belongs to me. It is my sacred special place, and I won’t have it sullied by some weak-sauce small talk. Surfing is not like that. It isn’t, to coin a phrase, like tennis.
Not talking about surfing is one of our many wonderful and complex rules. When you’ve hung out in the car park (I think that’s what our Aussie friends say), or on the rail, shooting the shit, heckling, getting heckled, telling jokes, complaining, whining, hooting, occasionally offering a much needed hug, then you’re allowed, but you won’t want to.
You won’t have to, you can just let it be what it is.