So, I had this frenemy named Steve ...

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This month marks the third time that I've begun The Artist's Way.

That said, while I've started The Artist's Way twice before, I have yet to finish it. Both times, I made it to Week 4 before losing steam and trailing off. (Ironically, Week 4 is about "Recovering a Sense of Integrity.")

However, I have faith that this third time will really be the charm. Not only am I intent on finishing the book: I'm also working through it in public—here on this list and also on LinkedIn. I figure this tactic will give me some accountability to see things through this time.

So, without further ado, I'm sharing my response to one of Week 1's writing Tasks:

3. Time Travel: List three old enemies of your creative self-worth. Please be as specific as possible in doing this exercise. Your historic monsters are the building blocks of your core negative beliefs. (Yes, rotten Sister Ann Rita from fifth grade does count, and the rotten thing she said to you does matter. Put her in.) This is your monster hall of fame. More monsters will come to you as you work through your recovery. It is always necessary to acknowledge creative injuries and grieve them. Otherwise, they become creative scar tissue and block your growth.

When I first answered this prompt, one enemy surprised me: Steve Sawatzky.

Steve was one of my best friends in middle school. Since I was homeschooled, we never shared any classes. However, three or four days a week, I biked to his Christian school for band and choir. He was two grades ahead of me, but for whatever reason, he enjoyed hanging out with me. Once we became "seniors"—the term for students in Grades 8 through 12—we performed closely together in the high school band. He played electric bass; I played the xylophone.

If you think that's an oddball combo, you're right. He was cool, talked with girls easily, and made friends with just about everyone. I, on the other hand, was a short, skinny nerd who struggled to look girls in the eye. Most of the time I preferred clanging away with my mallets to hanging out with other students. Plus, as a homeschooler, I didn't really belong. I was an outsider, and no amount of musical achievement could change that.

When I was with Steve, though, I didn't mind.

Sure, he once locked me in a locker. And sure, I responded by grabbing a drumstick and chasing him around the campus. That was a rough day. I'm not sure if I would've actually struck him if I'd caught him. Before I had a chance, an older student grabbed my arm in the locker room and ordered me out. I left in a righteous huff.

The next day, Steve came up and offered me a stick of gum. "I've never seen you like that before," he said. "You were really going to hurt me!" I just grinned, accepted the gum, and shrugged my shoulders. Then we moved on, at peace.

And it was a true peace.

The following year, my family publicly left our longstanding home church. This departure made band and choir awkward, since that Christian school shared its name and its property with the church. Still, Steve deliberately sought me out. "So that's why you were so sad on Sunday!" he exclaimed, referring to my tearful presence during our final church service there.

We then proceeded to walk across campus, spending over an hour in deep conversation. Steve wanted to know why we'd left. Ostensibly, it was on account of theological disagreements. But we both sensed that more was stake. "I'm pretty sure my dad hates your dad's guts," Steve commented at one point.

This isn't the time or place to delve into church politics. What's important is that Steve's comments weren't an attack. He was telling me that we were cool. That he wanted to understand things. That we were still friends, regardless of what our days might think of or say about each other.

We had these conversations a few times, and they were a balm to my grieving soul.

So, why was Steve on my enemies list?

One spring, long before the church upheaval, Steve and I decided to start a band. I'd been learning to play guitar and write songs. At the time, I was set on becoming a professional musician. The logical next step was to start playing and performing with other people.

Steve was immediately into the idea. He could play bass. We quickly drafted another student to play drums. A student who just happened to be our music director's son. Before I knew it, we had permission to rehearse in an empty out-building and were scheduled to have our first rehearsal during a Tuesday lunch break.

You have no idea how excited I was that Tuesday. I could feel my dreams taking shape, becoming reality. Lunchtime couldn't arrive soon enough.

Well, how do I put this? I showed up to school, went to the out-building, and hung out there with our drummer for twenty minutes. For the first five minutes, we talked and went over a tentative setlist. Then, when Steve hadn't shown up, we wondered if he'd gotten pulled in by a teacher. At 12:10, I began to grow antsy. By 12:15, I was worried. Where was Steve? Surely he couldn't have forgotten. But at 12:20, I had to admit that he wasn't coming. Lunch break was nearly over.

We left the building and I almost immediately bumped into Steve. "Hey," I said, "you forgot about band practice. We were waiting for you!"

"I didn't forget," Steve replied, barely pausing from whatever activity he was in the middle of. "I just didn't think you were serious about it."

I won't linger on how crestfallen I was. How I cried while pushing my bike up the long hill home. How I desperately tried to be nonchalant when my mom asked me about my band practice. 'Nuff said on all that.

I simply find it striking that someone who was a good friend—someone who sought me out and provided a safe space for me during a season of deep turmoil—is also someone who gave me a creative scar.

On the one hand, that's sobering. Just because I love and care about someone doesn't mean I'm immune from wounding them. I know this in theory. It stings differently when I'm faced with real-life flesh-and-blood situations.

And yet that also gives me hope. If the story teaches me anything, it's that wounds can heal. My wound from the aborted band healed before I needed Steve's presence in other ways. Twenty-five years later, I'm grateful to say that I'm also healing from the loner/"do-it-myself-ness" that was inspired (or perhaps strengthened) by that event.

So yeah. I'm glad for this prompt. Without it, I wouldn't have been prompted to dig deep and unearth this thankfulness.

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