Thriller, Filler, Spiller
The stubborn movement of unused creativity
Welcome to Vera Monstera! Movement is everywhere. Step into an embodied world where life springs from the power of play and slow-osity. What’s that? It’s like velocity, but instead of speeding in one direction, we dive into spacious, internal rhythms. No destinations, but lots of sights to see. It means the world that you’re here!
Subscribing for FREE helps bring visibility to these hidden moments in movement. And it helps Vera Monstera grow.
I want to take a second to thank you for reading Etta as an Eddy. More people read it than anything I have ever written. Wow. That speaks to Etta, not me. If you haven’t read it, take a look. It’s more than an obit (spoiler), it’s a love letter.
Today, I bring you “Thriller, Filler, Spiller.” It’s a repotted, transplant essay I wrote 9 years ago—a fun collaboration between the writer I was and the editor I am. And sharing it keeps it from burning a hole in my drafts folder. Enjoy!
"Unused creativity doesn't just disappear. It lives within us until it is expressed, neglected to death, or suffocated by resentment and fear."
–Brené Brown
"What locks itself in sameness has congealed. Is it safer to be gray and numb? What turns hard becomes rigid and is easily shattered."
–Rainer Maria Rilke
Aha. So "use it or lose it" doesn't apply. It's more "use it or it kills you." Dramatic, but I get it. Unused creativity doesn't fade into the background. It gloms on like an aching phantom limb.
From my desk, I look out the window, then down at these quotes I scribbled, then out the window again. What am I trying to write? I don’t remember. Where did I even find these quotes? I must have been rereading Brené. And I bought Rilke because, honestly, I was thinking Rumi. Two “R” names, poets. Couldn’t be more different. Thoughtless. I see that now. But how many rabbit holes open up because of mistakes?
Walking in the pre-dawn With eyes not fully open, Light moves like tendrils of mist And I glide, ghostlike, picking my way along sidewalks. Fairies rustle here In the half light, And what appear as thought Is a sensorial knowing.
The day is already shot. Mid-morning daylight hits the blank lines of the page. Magic is gone. Warm prickles creep into my armpits and cheeks, the heat of every possible thing.
Creativity cures or kills you.
I shudder at all the projects I’ve left undone. They’re the killers, dark damage on my psyche. I leave them untouched for the moment. But yesterday I wrote and…it went well. Instead of the deadly amorphous blank page (“just write!”), I had parameters, prompts. The comforting edges of a container. It was a zipped jacket on a cold day, keeping me from blowing apart.
Untethered, freeform creativity is debilitating. I learn this over and over. Limits are liberating. The garden is not a whole field. It’s a little rectangle of zinnias.
The pre-dawn is gone When a construction crew Across the street Prepares to re-pave the parking lot With much dust and discussion.
I think of the name game I play in dance classes. Kids circle up on the first day, and one at a time we say our name and do a movement. As we collect movements around the circle, we patch them together until we have a whole sequence of choreography. Look at us performing on Day 1! It’s boisterous and silly—second grade creativity needs no spark.
Ahem.
Until I see the kid who stares back blankly, deep within herself. She hasn’t moved a muscle. How long do I let her linger before I move for her. I've been that kid. I am that kid. And yet, there’s value in on-the-spot activities that pull you out of your head and into your body. Thinking selves become animal bodies (who paradoxically access more forms of knowing).
It was my job to give her a better container. How on earth do you pluck a movement out of the ether?
The pavers are ready. Things are happening. The driver in the rolling machine Glides heavily across the first row, Smoothing things out.
I have nothing. Unused creativity is eating me alive. Quotes and clippings and scraps are everywhere. I collect them, hide them, knowing I’ll find them when it's time. They are meant to inspire. But that makes me anxious. I’m bossed around by my own creative container.
“Make something!”
We need space to ruminate. Ideas sift down slowly. We don't know what we're saying until years later. Natalie Goldberg calls that writing process composting. It’s a dusty, dirty business. It takes time. Sorting and churning. Decay is necessary. New things sprout on top of the old. And surprises grow where you least expect.
Wormhole! Composting makes me think of worms. Ideas in the mess of soon-to-be soil. Anything worth its salt passes through a trail of sludge and worm poop.
Hmm. Well, my friend Amy and I have always said that when you’re talking out of your ass…"your ass knows more than you give it credit for."
Maybe it was all those avant-garde theater classes, but we got really good at making things up the fly. We started talking from our subconscious and somehow we woke up in the middle of a brilliant 3-hour presentation on Happenings. We did it! We kept it rolling with those guts you’re given when you’re young.
The machine backs up efficiently, Leaving a trail of steam Like the heat that rises Off hot asphalt after rain.
Speaking of soil, I took a Container Gardening class last night. Our teacher was accidentally introduced as Anita Baker. This particular Anita was actually a Smith, but the chime of Anita Baker's name was a clarion call.
Wormhole! As Anita Not-Baker began her lesson, my mind went on an Anita Baker tear.
Tear = rip Tear = cry Tear = raging around in a rabbit hole like a happy lunatic Rabbit holes AND wormholes? This is great!
What if Anita Baker really was teaching this gardening class? How’s that for a container? Scrumptious. I immediately need to hear "Giving Him the Best That I Got."
A man in an orange shirt smokes And smooths out edges of the asphalt With the weed whacker of paving. Cigarette dangling, He's hands-free to cut and glide, Smoke on smoke.
I haven't heard that song in 20 years, but hearing it again is like going home. Silky 80's sleekness and the sweet surprise of Baker’s range. I must have heard it a thousand times as a kid listening to the Smooth Jazz station CD101.9 on sun-lit Sunday mornings. Many a living room dance was choreographed.
Oh, CD 101.9! You were so over-produced and strange, full of synth and sax. As a kid, I earnestly fantasized about being a Smooth Jazz DJ. Or Smooth Jazz Operator. See what I did there? It’s Sade if you didn’t.
"Hello there! This is Jennifer Smoothitude and I hope you're slippin' into a smooth morning. If not, here's Anita Baker with "Giving You the Best That I Got." We love so strong indeed."
Men with brooms follow the trucks, Churning up a hot mess. There are too many cooks Out on the concrete-- Too many machines, Too much to do. But they do it, somehow, Their job contained. They don't pave the whole world, Just one patch.
I lean over the page now. A wormhole lifeline. I look up to see my plant projects. Two hooks holding hanging plants, trailing green. I made them with little pots and twine. It's not life-changing creativity, but maybe it is. Plants contain my joy. I putter, re-potting and reimagining.
In class, Anita Not-Baker taught us helpful hints for combining plants in a container. She suggested working in odd numbers–three is nice–using plants who have the same needs. There’s a fun rule of thumb. When choosing, look for:
1. A Thriller 2. A Filler 3. And a Spiller
The Thriller slaps you in the face with its wow factor. The Filler takes up space, giving fullness. And the Spiller trails down dramatically.
Suddenly, my mind is a frenzy of planning planters. Who's gonna live with who in which pot? Green things nudge creativity back into existence, reigniting dying embers.
I just moved. Everything is boxed up, buried, trashed or tucked away. But I did set up this desk with sacred tchotchkes, stones and tiny vases with mint.
While unpacking, I unearthed stacks of images, incense and a wise old ceramic owl. A surge of The Artist's Way flooded back. I had been working through Julia Cameron's classic creativity book for months and fell off the wagon with only a week left.
Unpacking the well-worn, red-covered book, a familiar phrase hit me. I skim the book to be sure of the wording and find the page immediately. Cameron writes that when working The Artist’s Way, "many gentle but powerful changes are to be expected."
The excavation led to a houseful of plants, a new home, a writing group, adventures, a return to my movement practice. And I learned that as a writer, all I need is:
1. A Thriller (me) 2. A Filler (notebook) 3. A Spiller (pen)
The true secret of these projects is doing them. Having an idea, seeing it through.
An old man shuffles along, Does he think he's old? He walks out of frame, Then returns a minute later-- A prescribed walk after surgery. Dressed stiffly, He holds the stance of an ex-marine. Head high, above the horizon, Lungs perpetually inhaling. His arm is caught at the elbow, Walking an imaginary dog. I see pain and endurance. But what do I know? "How do old people walk?" We wondered in a college theater fervor. I was trying to play A 50-year-old at 21. I’m closer now than I was then. And it doesn’t feel that old, Except when it does.
Wormhole. Good energy. Forward movement. I remember two small girls dressed as fairies at a party. They were NOT fairy princesses as I callously suggested. My old lady thoughts have hardened and congealed. Not all fairies are princesses.
The fairies performed a perpetual, ever-evolving show for the party, Robert Wilson-style. In wings, glitter and a teenager's pointe shoes they danced, in love with each other and life and the adoring eyes of the crowd.
One fairy sat quietly on her knees. She knew, like any great diva, the power of stillness. To the soundtrack of Frozen, she asked the other fairy, clear as crystal, "Do you want to build a snowman?" The purity of the question melted me.
A few songs later, the adults trickled back to the kitchen, but I kept watch. The singing rolled out the door and onto the lawn, punctuated by cartwheels. The show must go on. Good fairies, I see your point.
The pavers are almost finished. Black strips line the sides of the lot. The middle is left for last. But the work comes to a halt With honking and yelling. Things are left unfinished. One more row. What's the hold up?
Anita Not-Baker says if a plant sits in a starter pot too long, the roots begin to spiral. With no room to reach, they wrap. The plant becomes “root bound” and, if left alone, there’s no reversing the process. The roots clench the root bulb, sucking it dry, choking it to death.
These plants need space to grow into themselves. So we get in there. With scissors and strong hands, we hack and trim. We loosen the knots and try again.
The huge paving machine backs up For a last go-around. Men with shovels and rakes fall in line, Spreading sticky, black rubble. Two more trucks follow, One to smooth And one to dump what's left. The machines meet the paver In an intimate, functional embrace. It’s tense and tender. They drive on, Leaving a dusty trail Of steam and change.
