How Spiders are Like Good Creatives

I get stuck. Often. I get annoyed when circumstance keeps me from my own goals. I pout when professional projects don't come to fruition as easily or as perfectly as I'd hoped. I retreat from personal projects when I'm too tired, lazy, or overwhelmed.

Therefore, over the last few months, I have cultivated more excuses than personal work.

This has been quite common for me, and I've been aware of my tendency for some time. And it's also apparent to friends and family, who, on occasion, have pointed out that I need to work on personal projects more.

“I don’t wait for moods. You accomplish nothing if you do that. Your mind must know it has got to get down to work.”

— Pearl S. Buck

Photo from the Dutch National Archives, The Hague; Wikimedia Commons

I've said (out loud and unironically), that I'm "tidal." I ride an emotional wave that peaks in optimism and production, and valleys in pessimism and general crankiness. This tidal tendency, while possibly true, is complete and utter nonsense in terms of an excuse. It takes advantage of the stereotype of the moody artist. I might as well start wearing silk scarves and fedoras, cut myself "to feel," and brood over coffee. The fact of the matter is: there is no perfect time to create. I must simply find the time, and I must sit down and work.

Lightning strikes happen, but they are an oddity. As a creator-of-things, I can choose to think about things and wait for a lightning strike. I can stomp around, take pictures, and let things wash over me--in hopes it'll all serve as fuel when the lightning strike happens. But what if lightning never actually strikes?

I now realize it's better to increase my odds of success. Collect raw materials (i.e., drafts and words on the page) as lightning rods reaching up to the sky.  Catch lightning, rather than react to it. If I'm standing in a field of lightning rods, I'll have a much better chance of a lightning strike. Now, consider that each lightning rod is connected to every other. I'm not just setting up singular targets; I'm creating a huge bulls-eye — a spider web. 

Come to think of it, spiders are a great model for creative types. Consider garden spiders, Argiope Aurantia, which are a gnarly species of arachnid. Their large bodies and long legs are the material of my childhood nightmares. They frequent the flowerbeds at my grandmother's house, choosing prime spots for their webs near windows and doors, where they can reap the insect bounties offered by indoor and outdoor house lights.

They're hunters. But they're also patient, diligent and adaptable. They know how to increase their odds of success.

Photo by Snyder Joe, U.S. Fish and Wildlife Service; Wikimedia Commons

Consider their webs. When they build them, they use thicker silk for the foundational support threads. They set an anchor and drift on the wind to set the other end. Once the supports are set, they use a lighter thread to connect those threads, working in a spiral pattern, tightening as they go. They finish with a zipper-like seam in the center. Every day (or night, depending on the species), they eat the thinner thread, so they can digest and reuse it. The foundational threads remain.

I can think of four ways that garden spiders relate to creators-of-things:

1. They know the importance of setting a foundation and building outward. Good creators-of-things keep learning and building a foundation in knowledge. They also have toolboxes based on what they know and how they work — a small, functional set of tools that they can use in any situation.
   
   
2. They have purpose, even if it's unclear to an outsider what that purpose is. Their webs are for catching sustenance, and for survival. As a note, the zipper-like seam in the middle of their webs has given the species the nickname the "writing spider," due to its resemblance to writing. First, awesome. Second, it's unclear why they do this. Some say it's because it warns big animals of the web. Maybe it's for reinforcement, or to hold the extra weight of the spider. Either way, if a spider is betting its life on it, we can be sure it's there for a reason.
   
   
3. They're efficient. Producing web is taxing, so garden spiders reuse what they've already produced. They remake their webs every day, so they can learn and apply what they've learned to make a better web depending on the current circumstances. They sit still most of the day, but shake their webs violently when they see a bug approaching, to increase the chances the bug will get caught in the web. They are conscious of the energy they expend, which requires a strong awareness of, and focus on, purpose.
   
   
4. They rebuild when necessary. One day, some big oaf like me will walk right into a spider web — presumably screaming, panicking and crying like a five year old. The foundations will tear and the web proteins will be lost. But the spider will rebuild. It has no other choice because it's the only way it knows how to survive.

The moral of the story? In creative pursuits, it's important to work, stay focused, and be efficient. That way, when lightning strikes, or an insect sticks to your web, you'll be ready. You'll have the skills and the knowledge to know exactly what to do. It's imperative: your creative life depends on it.