Everything old is new again.

A long time ago, in a place not far from here, long before social media was a thing, I had a book. It wasn’t just any book. It was a giant date book, something that businesses used to use, I guess. It was much larger than an average book. My friend had gotten his hands on a few of these big books, and throughout our senior year of high school and beyond, they evolved into a kind of old school analog version of a blog or social media feed.

We used them to record our own thoughts, but we also passed them around between classes and during social gatherings. All of our friends and occasionally some other acquaintances would add their own drawings, writing or commentary. Some of it was messy. Some of it was brilliant. Most of it could be described as play. Goofy, creative, seeking significance kind of play.

Flipping through the old book, most of the content had to do with sex. We were in high school, after all. And if you’ve ever been in high school, this makes sense. It’s new. It’s mysterious. Some people are doing it, most aren’t, a lot of people are pretending like they’ve done more than they have in order to seem cool or mature. The emotions around the whole subject are raw and intense, and joking about it was a kind of relief. Another way to test the waters of something “adult.”

What I loved most about the Big Book, though, as it came to be known, was the collaborative effort to make our mark. That, and the vulnerability of exposing my own thoughts to anyone else who happened to pick up and page through it. The Big Book was where I could be myself, but more and sometimes not. I could invite others to get a glimpse of my inner world. Maybe they would connect, maybe they wouldn’t understand or think I was being stupid. That was a risk I took in those days, and a risk that I continued to take as I began to interact online and on social media as that space evolved.

On a whim recently, I bought a new sketchbook. I have a slight addiction to purchasing new journals and blank books, so I honestly didn’t need a new sketchbook. Standing in the store on that day, though, I remembered the Big Book from high school. I called mine, “A Place to Play,” back then, and I wondered what might happen if I attempted to recreate the experience now, as a legitimate adult, mostly surrounded by other actual adults.

Because of the rise and prevalence of social media and our constant interconnectedness online, which often isolates more than it connects, we’ve lost so much of the personal, the vulnerable. The feed scrolls on. We notice things and react, but we don’t interact like we once did, even online. My thought is that by putting pens in hands and a book in front of someone in the same room as me, we can connect on a new level. A level that feels risky again. Uncomfortable. Deep. Vulnerable. Powerful and encouraging.

Even if all people do is share a favorite quote or a drawing of a smiley face, it’s something. It feels strange because we’ve been behind a screen for so long, and we’re used to typing on our keyboards, using emojis and .gifs as a substitute for real human expression. It feels uncomfortable because we don’t tend to invite others into our personal spaces as much as we used to. And to hand someone a book and a pen and say, “Do anything you want, just make a mark,” well, that can be intimidating on either end of the exchange.

So I bought this sketchbook. A large one. Not as large as the old book I passed around in high school, but too large to hide away easily. I got out some paints and decorated the cover. I looked for good words to title the thing, something inspiring. I found, “Our Art Book.” And the plan is to fill it up with whatever we collectively need to express in any given moment. Some people might make a drawing. Some might write something to me or to someone else. Maybe they’ll share a quote or a story. Maybe they’ll just glance through the pages to see what someone else did. Maybe some will pass. It’s all okay with me. My hope is that by saying yes to my invitation to participate in this project of mine, the people around me will have some fun and experience a new way of creating or connecting.

I’ve already brought my new book out to a couple of in-person events. As I go out into the world of networking, I share my belief that everyone is creative. I share that my intention is to do something a bit out of the ordinary. To push myself and other people outside of our comfort zones. It’s another memorable way to talk about what I do as a coach and to hold space for new levels of understanding and community, even if I never directly coach anyone in that room. 

At a few of these events, I’ve kept the book to myself, hidden away as much as it can be because I was unsure if the time was right to make the invitation. Other times, I’ve had the courage to pass the book and some colorful pens around, ask for participation and have had several people accept. I’m learning that the time is never right. Or maybe it’s always right, and not asking means not making a difference.

Because this is not a thing that most people do, at least those of us outside the realm of art school or our yearbook-autographing phase of life, I get nervous about making that initial invitation to a new group or a new person. I worry that maybe they’ll laugh at me. Maybe they’ll think it’s stupid, and by extension, that I’m stupid. I know that this is not likely to happen, though, because the people I choose to surround myself with are encouraging and enthusiastic and willing to experience new things right alongside me. My challenge is then to push through that bit of fear, which is trying to keep me safe and small, and boldly ask anyway.

And when I do that, when I passionately talk about creativity, connection, and how this book project fits in with these two core values of mine, I see people open. I see fear. I see doubt. I can all but hear some of their own self-talk, even if nothing is said out loud. And this shows me that I’m onto something. It gives me a window to their struggles. To their identity. And it’s an invitation for me to connect on a deeper level than a quick conversation about “what do you do,” or a thirty-second elevator pitch.

Just like anything else in life, participation is not required. But you’ll get out what you put in. Even if people only take a few minutes to flip through the book and see what’s already there, it might inspire them in exactly the way they need to be inspired. Maybe what you write in our book will inspire someone else. Maybe if you pick up a pen without knowing what you’ll do with it, you’ll come up with your own surprising way of inspiring yourself. Maybe the simple act of being invited to share something in this way will inspire a new thought you might not otherwise have had. There are so many ways that this simple exercise can change countless lives as well as my own. And I’m really excited about it.

So if you’re around the Greater Milwaukee area, prone to networking or interested in meeting up during my “Summer Office Hours,” I hope that you’ll pick up a writing instrument and contribute to Our Art Book. Contact me to connect.

I can’t wait to see what we come up with!