Tag: art

The Wall

~ David Willis ~ Leave a comment

Christmas of 1997 I asked my parents for a guitar, and they got me one.

I was halfway through my sophomore year, home for the break. I opened the box and I was genuinely thrilled — right up until I got my hands on the neck. It was a beginner’s three-quarter model, and my hands are not small hands.

I remember working very hard at not seeming ungrateful. Dad, this is awesome, I said, I just — I can’t get my fingers where they go.

He said, well, how about we take it back and see what we can find.

My uncle ran a music store in Duncan. We drove it over, got the money back, and he put a Jasmine in my hands — Takamine’s beginner line, full size, light face and darker wood on the sides. Pretty guitar.

Next year I’ll have had it thirty years. It hangs on the wall right inside my office door and I tuned it up this week and it still sounds right. I’ve written twenty or twenty-five songs on it.

I never got any good in the way people mean when they say good.

I started a guitar class in college and it didn’t take, mostly because it was aimed at lead playing and I didn’t want to play lead. I wasn’t trying to be Stevie Ray Vaughan. I wanted to play rhythm, sing, and write my own things, and for that you need chords and patterns and a feel for it, which I taught myself over about three decades.

What stuck wasn’t skill. It was the instrument.

We used to run a booth in an antiques mall, which meant a lot of Saturdays at estate sales looking for things to resell. Some of it we sold. Some of it stayed.

I don’t remember whose house it was. I’ve been to too many. But I walked in and there was a guitar sitting in a hard case, and normally I look right past guitars at these things — the classicals with the dead nylon strings, the corroded wire, the wood that’s been dry in a closet for twenty years.

This one was clean. Solid. Still roughly in tune, which tells you something about whoever had it. I picked it up and it was playable right there in a stranger’s house.

Seventy-five dollars. It’s a Ventura — designed in the States, built in Japan, and the name doesn’t exist anymore as far as I can tell. From what I’ve been able to piece together it was made before I was born.

It hangs next to the Jasmine. Those two are the featured wall in my office, and the Ventura is the one I actually reach for. Lightest strings of anything I own, so it doesn’t hurt my fingers, and the tone on it is rich in a way I didn’t pay for.

Somebody kept that guitar in shape for fifty years and then it came to my house.

I collect a few other things.

Six guitars. Thirty-some pipes, including a Gandalf one my wife gave me one Christmas, because I’ve always loved the stories about C.S. Lewis being absent-minded enough to set his own jacket pocket on fire. A couple hundred records — Bob Seger’s on the player right now. Comic books from years ago, up on a shelf. Cast iron, eight pans in the oven and another twenty-five out in the garage I haven’t gotten to since we moved. Cookbooks, for a project I haven’t started.

And books. Enough books that my wife has, over the years, gently suggested some of them could go. I rearranged them until they fit instead, which she let me get away with.

On our twentieth anniversary we were in Fredericksburg, Texas, and found a charity thrift store with a complete set of the Harvard Classics — the five-foot shelf, early 1900s, all of it. Twenty-five dollars. They sit on top of the china cabinet in my office.

Here’s the honest part about the books, and it took me a while to say it out loud. I’ve read maybe half of them. The rest I know about. I’ve read summaries, I could tell you the argument, I keep them where I can see them.

That’s knowledge near me rather than in me, and I know the difference.

There’s one more thing on my walls and I didn’t acquire any of it.

My son paints and draws. I’ve got eight of his pieces hanging in this office — I can see all eight from where I’m sitting. Drawings and oils.

I’ve told him I’m his collector. That’s the word I use for it, and I meant it as a joke the first time, and then I kept saying it.

Everything else in this room I went and found. Estate sales, thrift stores, a music store in Duncan in 1997. All of it was finished before it got here — somebody else built the guitar, somebody else bound the books, somebody else played the Ventura for fifty years, and I’m the one who came along afterward and put it on a wall.

His are the only ones where the collection isn’t done yet.

Day 5 – 740 Challenge: What I Am Learning

~ David Willis ~ Leave a comment

How I’m Learning to Embrace My Creative Vibe

For most of my life, I thought creativity was a rare gift, a lightning bolt of inspiration that struck only the lucky few. I’d sit, waiting for that mythical lightning bolt to strike, convinced that’s how it worked. Spoiler: it never did.

I felt like I was chasing a mirage, my notebook empty, my ideas stuck in a fog of self-doubt. I would have times of breakthrough, but then retreat back to frustration. But lately, I’ve been reading Chase Jarvis’s Creative Calling, and it’s flipped my understanding of creativity upside down—in the best way.

Chapter 2, “Walk Your Path,” hit me especially hard with its call to embrace what makes you weird, to see your quirks not as flaws but as the fuel for creative fire. Jarvis’s words, paired with my own reflections, have helped me realize that creativity isn’t just painting or writing—it’s a way of seeing the world, solving problems, and daring to approach life from angles others might call unorthodox.

Here’s how I’m learning to live with a more creative outlook, even if it doesn’t look like the traditional artist mold.

Creativity Isn’t Magic—It’s Practice and Perspective

Jarvis argues that creativity thrives when you stop conforming and start amplifying what makes you unique. He quotes designer James Victore: “The things that made you weird as a kid make you great today.” That line really made me think. As a kid, I’d spend hours changing the lyrics to songs or singing my own songs I made up. You could call it daydreaming; I called it my world. But somewhere along the way, I let the pressure to be normal dull that spark.

I thought creativity meant producing a masterpiece, not solving a problem or seeing something differently. Jarvis, though, insists that creativity is a muscle you build through consistent practice, not a one-off miracle. This resonated with me because I spent years believing inspiration was supposed to strike like lightning. It didn’t. Instead, I’ve learned that creativity comes from showing up—whether it’s doodling without judgment, writing messy first drafts, or even singing at random to spark a new idea.

My aha moment? Creativity is about action, not perfection. It’s the act of sitting down, trying, failing, and trying again. Jarvis’s emphasis on daily practice—small, bold steps—reemphasizes the need to stop waiting and start doing, even if my efforts feel weird compared to what’s expected.

Seeing the World Sideways

What’s really shifted for me is how I define creativity. I used to think it was about singing, writing, or acting—things I’m not particularly skilled at. But now, I see it as a way of approaching life itself. Creativity is problem-solving with a twist, looking at the world through a lens that’s uniquely mine. Like Jarvis suggests, it’s about refusing to follow the safe path and instead forging one that feels alive. For me, this means noticing patterns others overlook—like listening for what’s really going on in conversations or helping people who are frustrated see a different view.

Over the years, there have been plenty of opportunities for this at work. We were stuck on a project, everyone recycling the same tired solutions. Someone suggested an approach that felt a bit out-there, inspired by how solutions worked outside our industry or department. We listened. We tried it. It wasn’t conventional, but it worked. In every facet of life, creativity isn’t just art; it’s seeing the possible and the impossible, then finding a way to make it real. Jarvis talks about this too—how your unique perspective, the one others might call odd, is what sets your work apart in a world full of sameness.

Embracing the Unorthodox

Jarvis’s call to walk your path reminds me that creativity flourishes when you lean into what makes you different. For me, that’s meant revisiting those weird parts of myself I used to hide. I love combining things that don’t seem to belong together—mixing character voices with work meetings or finding inspiration by taking different roads to work to explore new paths. These aren’t traditional creative outlets, but they excite me, and that’s what matters.

Jarvis writes about the importance of pursuing what sets your soul on fire, even if it looks risky or unconventional to others. That’s a permission slip to stop worrying about doing creativity “right” and instead focus on what feels authentic. I’m also learning that creativity is about vulnerability. Sharing my half-baked ideas or quirky projects feels scary, but Jarvis emphasizes that putting your work out there—imperfect as it is—builds the courage to keep going.

So, I’ve started small: posting these thoughts on my blog or sharing goodies I’ve baked with people at work. The response? Sometimes crickets, sometimes applause, but always a step toward owning my creative vibe.

Living the Creative Vibe

My biggest takeaway from Jarvis—and from my own journey—is that creativity isn’t a destination; it’s a way of being. It’s not about producing a gallery-worthy painting or a viral video (though those are cool). It’s about seeing the world sideways, solving problems with fresh eyes, and arranging ideas in ways that excite you.

Whether I’m tinkering with a new recipe, reframing a work challenge, or just singing a song of my own design, I’m leaning into seeing from my unique perspective. If you’re like me, maybe you’ve spent too long waiting for permission to be creative. Stop waiting. As Jarvis says, your path is yours alone—walk it, quirks and all. For me, that means embracing the unorthodox, practicing daily, and letting go of the myth that creativity is some magical gift. It’s work, it’s play, it’s problem-solving, and it’s mine.

What’s your creative vibe? How do you see the world differently? Let’s stop hiding our weird and start creating—because that’s where the magic really lives.