She agreed with me about the creative generalism thing and almost demanded that I used it to my advantage. I looked at my cup of coffee and stirred until the barista's art had vanished completely. It had been a leaf, brown over the beige surface of the cappuccino. Now it was a mere stain in the fluid. I shrugged. Over the past few sessions she had given me a few tips and ideas, all of which sounded wonderful and obtainable, until the real me had to step into the real world again.

Oddly, that real world feels a lot like a Monty Python sketch. I came from the banking and customer service world and wanted something completely and utterly different, thus they all called me for a job as a helpdesk employee. This is the ridiculous reality of trying to evolve as a human being in this economy. There will always be someone who'll say "back to your seat". I most definitely did not want to go back to my seat. That seat was ungrateful, unfair, underappreciated. "But you're good at that," some lady on the phone said. "Yeah, I know, but fuck that," I replied, which is never a good thing to say when someone is offering you a job as a phone agent. The girl promised to call back as soon as she had something else that might interest me, which assured me that I would never hear from her again. I was right about that.

Still, there had to be food on the table and water in my toilet. So after a long period of slowly giving up something suddenly fell into my lap. I did not see it coming, my wife did. Still, in only a matter of days I found myself behind the counter of a book store. Paid. All of a sudden there was a job that did not include sentences like "My computer doesn't work and it's your fault." or "You can not drink soup at your desk but you can drink coffee." or "I'm going to hang myself." Now there were new skills to learn, like how not to drop a box with newspapers off the stairs. I learned that the hard way. I needed only four working days for my first wound. That box has nasty sharp edges. The scratch healed quickly but the security guard still laughs when he sees me.

Back home on one of my first days into the job, I found a message on my LinkedIn account. It was the job coach, congratulating me with the bookstore gig. She added "I guess" which made me giggle. Of course she had expected that by now I would be in charge of my own thriving company, making movies like Studio 100 or whatever. After all, that's what I used her skills for.

But instead, I became some sort of Bernard Black, a cynical, people hating bookstore worker. The only difference is, I quite enjoy this job and I can be a pretty cool version of me in there, which is probably a lot more valuable than money (but don't tell that to my boss). Sure, I understand the woman's doubts. She feels I should stand on my own legs but those legs are so deeply rooted in the creative underground that they simply don't make any money. And that is the harsh reality of being a creative generalist. My mind rages way too fast to focus on one idea for the rest of my career.

I'm slowly finishing my second novel, 'I Do Not Want This'. There are already blueprints for a new project and yesterday I created the main characters for yet another one. In between I'm recording music with my band Synchyse and I've started working on the new EP by Misantronics vs Mint Narcosis. Mind you, those all need artwork and guess who is working on those. I'm back in the game as far as music reviews are concerned and then there is this blog. In fact, there is already another part of this very blog in the making. Confusing? Perhaps. Oh, and I love making pictures of squirrels, birds and everything that could become cover art. Busy busy busy. Meanwhile, there is a household to maintain and I'm bloody glad that there are no children involved in it, just a fat, lazy cat. Sometimes I'm surprised I managed to keep her alive for over a decade. I guess my wife is mostly responsible for that, though.

So, what to do with my life? Spotify is not the answer. Renting a store to sell the games I create is not the answer. Smashwords is not the answer. At least not in this phase of my creative career. The answer is, in my case, finding something certain and steady which gives you the time to let the creative juices flow. Those will flow anyway. Whenever, wherever. Only extremely hard drugs can stop that, like anesthesia or a severe alcohol black-out. This creative generalism, advantage or handicap, will forever push ideas towards my fingers. Many of those ideas will fail, as many have in the past but perhaps, one day, one of those will hit the right spot. ​I've had time to observe this creative generalism and I think I know what it feels like. It's like a gambling addiction. Many of my colleagues in the creative underworld suffer from it. They are unstoppable. They continuously come up with new songs, poems, stories, paintings or drawings, hoping that one of them will make them climb that ladder to the treasure chest of creativity. Most of them will never get there, including me. Why?

Well, let's just face it, that treasure chest is guarded by enormous marketing campaigns, economic strategies and the worship of mediocre art. There, I said it. I blame corporations for my failure, not the lack of talent. Well, not really corporations and I do not actually blame them. This is simply the world we live in, one where things succeed and other things tumble down into obscurity. You simply have to decide which one suits you best. 

Creative generalism is a bit like the cast of the Young Ones living in your head. First you're pissed off like Vivian. Then you take action and fail miserably like Rick, only to give up like Neil or become a hardass like Mike. When you're lucky, someone like Cliff Richard will come along and give you a heap of money. I think we're all waiting for the one-armed bandit of creativity to be generous one day. We live on hope and thrive on finding new ways to climb that ladder. Some of us want to create the soundtrack for the next Hollywood hit, and they would be brilliant at that job. Others, I, want to write that nine-star Netflix series. Still others want to invent the next bestselling game or become an executive in an inspiring eco-friendly firm.

​Serge

Imagine a squirrel, balancing on a carrot, trying to draw a nice picture of a lake in Guatemala while it's being bombarded with origami birds wearing striped pajamas. That is probably the most picturesque description for creative generalism I can give you. If you don't understand that, don't worry. Very few people know what "creative generalism" is. Heck, I didn't know what it was. All I knew that I was running from project to project, from song to short-story and from photography to living room design, all in one day, each day, every day of the four decades I have spent on this planet so far. Sounds like fun, right? Wrong. It can be bloody annoying.

It was an ugly room, very feng-shui with the white walls and the depressed potted plants. On the floor there was a colorful carpet and a cheap made-in-China speaker creaked out something that must have been a new age tune. I remember three chairs and a ridiculous amount of pillows. I sat down on one of the chairs. I sighed. She tilted her head and looked at me. "So, what are you here for?" I had no idea. Anger, frustration, the feeling of being stuck in a rut. Nothing was wrong with me, I guessed, just another disgruntled citizen feeling like a failure. I ended up narrating some stories from my life. My first memory. My first toy. My inability to properly finish a project. And then, out of thin air, she hit the hammer.

"You are a creative generalist."

I frowned, mostly because I don't like people telling me what I am. Then she explained it. She told me about my brain, which constantly comes up with new ideas, schemes and fantasies. All this in sheer contrast with my mouth, which usually prefers to be quiet. She also said that it would probably never stop, unless I got hooked on Xanax or Aderall or whatever mind-numbing is fashionable. For a few moments, I thought about it. I'll admit that. There have been times when I just wanted to take that pill and go absolutely blank for a few hours. I never have. They scare me. I prefer a constantly raging mind over a prescription drug anytime. So I asked what I should do. Her advice was the dumbest thing I've ever heard.

​"Write a book about it."

I paid her, severely regretted that and went home. I told my wife about the session and about the creative generalism. She replied; "well, I could have told you that." Eventually, I forgot all about my first and only session with a therapist, until a few months later. It was early in the afternoon. I was doing to the dishes when suddenly the first half of her sentence popped up. "Write a book." The following months were legendary. Every night, my fingers battered the keyboard. Imperturbable. Tireless.

I wrote my debut novel in a raging tempo. I was focused like never before. This was so me, everything went perfectly. Well, almost perfectly. There was still a lot to be learned about editing and publishing books. Mistakes had been made but the result was something to be proud of. 80.000 words, the longest thing I have ever written. Up until then, I had written short stories, poems and a whole bunch of music reviews, but this was something else. 'Cecilia's World' had become a unique piece of work: a novel about music. Errors or not, I was pretty damn proud of myself. After all, I did something I had never been truly able to: finish a lengthy project.

Then her voice came back. "Write a book about..."

"...psychokinesis," and off I went again. Inspired by Carrie, Matilda, Mr. Robot and the Zeitgeist movies, I started assaulting a brand new keyboard. Six monthly chapters, 120.000 words. An elaborate blueprint with room for improvisation. A massive soundtrack. Videos. Dubbed 'I Do Not Want This', the new book easily surpassed 'Cecilia's World'. That is, until I reached the 70.000 words mark. I froze. Words stopped flowing. I had been writing for months. Two, three, four, five hours per day. In between I contacted musicians and test readers. Suddenly however, all was blank, except for her words. 

​"Will you finally start writing that book about creative generalism?"

I got angry. "Is this really the time to hit me with this thing? I know. I'm a creative generalist. I'm writing a book, composing music and trying to perfect all these technical details surrounding this project. Stop bothering me and let me finish this." I actually found myself talking to myself. That's not a very healthy situation. 

I started taking longer breaks in between writing sessions. I got reacquainted with SimCity and Time Team. I rediscovered the fine art of postponement. Yes, I felt guilty about it but not for long. A new story started blooming and I managed to postpone that one like a professional. I know now, time is on my side. I know that 'I Do Not Want This' will continue .

But her voice. Her sharp, stinging voice. It felt like fingernails on a blackboard. And then it dawned on me. "Hey, I'm a creative generalist. I can write different stories simultaneously," and here we are. I compromised, decided to start a blog about it and publish it here at Merchants Of Air.

Maybe she will read this. If so, I guess she'll be offended by my words once in a while. I will complain and nag about the uselessness of therapists and the money-grabbing business of psychological healthcare. That's what I do: use my writing skills to kick and claw and bite everything I think is unjust. Yet, maybe she will find some interesting anecdotes or even tips for her patients. I'm definitely not the only creative generalist on this blue globe but by now, I am an experienced one. I can hold on to an idea until the right moment. I can finish a project. I can outsource, cooperate and seek advice. My brain is still rumbling like a madman but I managed to install imaginary resistors which slow down and organize the ideas.

And who knows, maybe it can help you, too. Maybe you recognize the stories about brains rumbling like volcanoes. Perhaps you, too, are one of those people who love to write songs, paint landscapes, build ships in a bottle and cook the greatest lasagna in history, all before breakfast. If so, I have bad news for you. You are a creative generalist. You can't help it. There's no way out. You have to create. The good news is: it's not a disease, merely a brain working overtime. Once you realize that, you will never, ever get bored again.