What is it about an other that can be so… well, whatever you wouldn’t come up with yourself? When it comes to creativity — making something new whether on canvas, with sound, in writing, or out of clay – most people work alone. It’s a solitary life, the way of an artist, isn’t it?
Then again, maybe not.
When I read Joshua Wolf Shenk’s Atlantic piece about the creative collaboration of John Lennon and Paul McCartney, I admit feeling a mix of envy, nostalgia, and gratitude. What a partnership those guys had! But it’s not easy to come by. Psychologist Susan K. Perry parses the ingredients. Others like Bob Kodzis, who observes the power of difference as well as basic trust, weigh in on how.
I’m lucky to have had some wonderful collaborators — oh, the laughs with Esther Nelson as we wrote our tiny handbook to introduce students to the project of religious studies; the exciting give and take on poetry, theology, and metaphor with David Capes, when translating for The Voice; moments with editors as we fleshed out books Bible Babel and Living through Pain, articles, or essays included moment-gems that though intense and sometimes difficult were always finally nothing other than fun.
As a writer, I work mostly alone. B
ut I treasure the times, even transitory exchanges — a serendipitous cocktail conversation, great acquaintances made at a writing conference, every-so-often phone meetings with distant artist friends — when an other brings perspective, energy, or interests that shed new light on a project or prompt something altogether new.
And I am incredibly grateful for the wonderfully creative friends, who simply by virtue of their own work and craft – conversations about, or in the thing itself — regularly inspire my own. I envy John and Paul that collaboration. But how lucky I am for the many and varied connections that stimulate that delicious urge to make better, make new, and best of all, that afford a chance to support an other in his or her artistic pursuit.
