Please Don’t Put Me in a Box
On Creative freedom, changing direction, and keeping the parts we love
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Recently, I met some local voiceover friends for dinner. Our conversations wander all over the place, which is one of my favorite things about getting together. We talk about projects we’re voicing, of course, but also families, frustrations, new adventures, and whatever else life happens to be serving up.
I had just finished my first art festival, and I was feeling pretty happy with myself. I had taken the step of putting my art out there in the wild.
Lots of lookers. No takers.
I’m okay with that. Showing up with something I made and letting strangers see it was its own accomplishment.
Somewhere between talking about art and audiobooks, someone asked which audiobook genre was my niche. It was a perfectly reasonable question, but my answer took the scenic route.
You see, I don’t particularly like tidy little boxes with labels.
There is nothing wrong with having a niche. Plenty of people thrive with a clear specialty. They know what they do, who they do it for, and exactly how to describe it. I can appreciate that, but when I try to put everything I love into one neat category, something always ends up hanging over the edge.
Usually something I’m unwilling to leave behind.
We hear advice like “write what you know.” It makes sense. Our experiences shape what we notice and what we have to say, but my experiences have been varied and colorful. It seems only fair that my work gets to be that way, too.
Some parts of my life demand the boldness of acrylics. Some of my messier moments could probably be explained quite nicely with fluid paint running in an unexpected direction. Other experiences need softness, so I reach for watercolor.
My narration works much the same way.
Nonfiction is probably my favorite. The recovering educator in me loves the opportunity to help someone understand something. Give me factual information delivered with warmth and purpose, especially information that might help a listener see their life differently, and I’m interested.
Sometimes a book offers one small thought that gets something moving. I love being part of that.
But I also love fiction. A good romance can be exactly what I need. Mysteries and thrillers pull me in. So do cozy stories and literary fiction. And then there’s true crime, which appeals to yet another part of my curiosity.
If I connect with the material and feel I can serve it well, I want the freedom to consider it.
That’s a harder answer to fit on a business card.
If you’re familiar with my story of burnout and rebuilding, you know I’ve tried quite a few art mediums along the way. Watercolor. Pencil sketches. Line-drawing doodles. Gel printing. Fluid acrylics. Inks. Collage.
And now, my latest obsession: oil pastels.
I’ve been wanting to move toward a looser, more painterly, impressionist approach. I want to capture how something feels—the color, the movement, the part that makes me stop and look.
With watercolor, I wasn’t quite finding my way there. I wanted more control, but not complete control. Apparently, I have very specific requirements for how much cooperation I expect from my art supplies.
Oil pastels are giving me room to explore that balance.
I can make a deliberate mark, then soften it. Let colors mingle. Leave something rough. Suggest a shape without explaining every inch of it.
I’m still learning, but I’m loving the process. Looking at something, noticing what calls to my eye and heart, and giving an impression of it on paper feels a little like daydreaming.
A daydream I get to hang on the wall.
How will that find its way into my other work?
I don’t know yet. I’m curious enough to keep going.
Throughout my life, I’ve sometimes felt I’m the quitter of things.
I left radio because I needed work that fit better with life as a single mother. I went into teaching, following a long line of fabulous teachers in my family.
Teaching wasn’t my passion. I can say that now.
I cared about my students, and I worked hard to be the best teacher I could be. But the rules, the expectations, and the resistance wore on me.
Oh, the resistance.
We won’t unpack all of that here. It’s in The Art of Returning if you’d like the longer version.
I’ve worked since I was sixteen and could drive myself to a job. I know how to show up, honor a commitment, and give something my best effort.
What took me longer to learn was how to recognize when that effort was costing too much.
For years, I gave that word—quitting—more weight than my own understanding of why I needed to leave.
Sometimes a change comes from necessity. Sometimes we’ve learned enough to make a different choice. Sometimes we finally admit that the life we’ve worked so hard to maintain no longer fits.
Those decisions deserve a little more consideration than a label slapped across them.
Art gives me space to listen to myself.
I’ve always noticed colors and shapes, even when I wasn’t trying to. My eyes find combinations, textures, and little arrangements everywhere. These days, I give that part of myself more room.
And I’m learning to pay attention when it asks for something different.
I love collage. I love choosing papers, putting unexpected pieces together, and watching an image emerge. I tear everything by hand, which gives me edges and textures I enjoy.
It also leaves me with tired hands and eyes.
Some days, that slow, detailed work is satisfying. Other days, I want to pick up a stick of color and make a mark without searching through thirty-seven scraps for the right piece of blue.
Both kinds of days belong in my studio.
I don’t want the pressure of having declared myself one kind of artist to keep me from making the work I’m curious about today.
If someone tries to stick a permanent label on my forehead, there’s a good chance I’ll reach for a different medium before the adhesive sets.
I know myself.
I suspect this reaches beyond art.
Maybe you’ve spent years becoming good at something and have started wondering what else you might enjoy. Maybe a job title explains what you do all day but leaves out most of who you are. Maybe you’ve wanted to try something new, then hesitated because everyone knows you as the person who does that other thing.
There’s comfort in being known. There can also be pressure to stay recognizable.
I’m an author, narrator, and artist. I’m also a former broadcaster and teacher. Each experience has left something with me. I hear it in my narration, find it in my writing, and occasionally recognize it in the way I approach a blank page.
I get to carry those things forward without doing all of them forever.
These days, I want to try new things, hang on to the parts I love, and let go of what no longer serves me. Goodness knows, I wish I’d given myself that permission when I was younger. I would have made some decisions differently. It would have cut out a ton of stress.
But I’m here now, with a little more understanding of myself and a box of oil pastels I’m eager to get back to.
That was a long answer to my friend’s question.
I suppose I’m still answering it.
For now, there’s a color combo I want to try.
Catch Ya Later,
Jenn
Jennifer Walden is a writer, audiobook narrator, and artist at Creative Crow Studios. A recovering teacher with a curious heart and colorful hands, she’s making room for whatever calls her next. Find her at CreativeCrowStudios.com.
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