Fulfilling Friendships for Creatives: A How-To Guide

A tutorial on how to meet people you love while doing what you love.

I don’t often tell people that I almost dropped out of college only two months into my first ever semester. I was seventeen, and I hated everything. I felt trapped where I was, and although I made a handful of friends fairly quickly, it wasn’t enough for me. It was only around my sophomore year, in the very beginning of post-COVID life, that I started to see the opportunities all around me.

I went to a small university. Tiny, even, compared to most. But even now, living across the country, I’ve met a handful of folks who briefly attended at the same time as me, although our paths never crossed. “You graduated from there?” they’ve asked me. “How did you manage to stay that long? It’s so boring.”

Honestly, that’s hard to argue with. The campus life isn’t the best, the administration is conservative at best and dictators at worst. But my response is always the same: “You just didn’t know the right people.” And although I feel kind of pretentious saying that, I can’t think of any other way to put it.

Most of my friends are still there, in that small corner of Tennessee, just bordering Gerogia. One of them called me about a week ago, venting. “I need more creative friends,” she said. “Friends with hobbies, who like to do more. Like the events you used to drag me to.”

And there were so many events. Houseshows, live bands, fashion shows, art galleries, pop-up markets. I somehow had a knack for finding these random, obscure places that were chock-full of creatives wanting to connect with one another. The beautiful thing about the art scene in such a small town is that everyone somehow knows one another, and it’s easy to become one of those people, too.

I got involved in local magazines, working at markets, and found my place at these events quickly. My creativity was mine, but it was loved and appreciated by the community, and vice-versa. Everyone’s creativity was their own, but it was collectively ours. I had a sense of belonging in these places that was difficult to find anywhere else.

There’s so much joy in finding individuals who view life creatively and express it in their own way. Your conversations are elevated, you constantly feel motivated and inspired by them, and pursuing your goals feels easier. You wake up every day with your hand reached out, and it always turns up empty. Again and again and again. Until one day, you reach out, and you’re no longer surprised when someone reaches back. We reach for each other, again and again and again.

So how the hell do we find these places? How do we find our community in the first place, and then how do we get it to grow and grow and grow?

Full disclosure: It takes time. Your creative community won’t expand overnight. But once you begin, with patience and dedication, you’ll feel the continuous inspiration and fellowship you’ve been craving. And no, you don’t need to be a professional—you just have to love it.

Let’s break this down into three versions. You could do one or the other, or you could do both (which is my preference).

Number one: join a local organization. Or group, or project, or anything that involves a team of people regularly getting together to work on something creative and intentional. I volunteered with two different magazines while living in my college town, one as a writer on a team full of other writers (all of which were also women, an absolutely beautiful experience) and the other as a writing director and overall assistant to the magazine. I found myself consistently working with fellow creatives in the form of other writers, photographers, stylists, event coordinators, and much more. Besides the actual work being done, there were monthly or sometimes bi-weekly gatherings—fashion shows, markets, houseshows, or just a movie night in someone’s apartment.

This version takes a lot more commitment. You’re choosing to give away some of your free time to do some volunteer work, and sometimes it can be a lot, especially when you’re trying to make a living. But now in my adulthood, I’ve realized that I need to volunteer myself and my talents now more than ever before. By doing this, you’re giving to a community that will ultimately give back to you. Not monetarily or materially, but through friendship, passion, fulfillment, and joy. It’s cheesy, for sure. But I’ve never felt as fulfilled as I do when I’ve been working towards something with people I love, and we watch it come to fruition together. Look, we painted the sky overnight, and now we’re watching the sunrise.

Number two: literally just talk to people. That’s putting it very, very simply. But in other words, you can either be a part of the organizers or a regular attendee. In the first version, you’re doing things along with the people who are leading things out. But in this second one, you’re in the crowd. You get lost in the people, in the bodies around you, in the conversations being had and the ones you’re dying to be a part of. In this one, you’re sitting outside in a circle of people while the next band gets ready to play inside. You’re watching some girls holding hands in a human chain, and you know you don’t quite belong yet but you almost do. You could, soon, if you just ask the blonde girl where she got her dress from, and how long has she been coming to this thing, anyway? It’s your first time, but you think you’ll come again, especially if they’ll be here, too.

Number three: DIY. I didn’t know how to find my creative community when I first decided to make the move across the country to California. I was terrified, and a part of me still is. I haven’t fully made my home here yet, but what helped me start laying my roots was opening a space for creatives to come forward. I started by inviting fellow poets to speak at my book launch party about a month into moving. I didn’t know any of them—one was an Instagram mutual and two were referenced to me. So the last thing I expected was a packed house, of local creatives who had been looking for a community of their own. But this isn’t the only way to do it. These can be done on a smaller scale, too: start a book club, a dinner club, an art in the park day. When I started, I didn’t realize that I was providing something that was so needed. Now, three months later, I’m still giving, and giving, and giving. And every time I see my work come to light—whether it’s someone smiling at me in the corner, holding my hand during a performance, thanking me for making space for them—my cup overflows.

Happy Latin American Heritage month to my fellow Latinx. I love you. Thank you for reading and supporting your Latinx creators.

I took a big break from Instagram, and now it’s all coming to fruition. September was hard, but October will be good. I hope you’re able to breathe a little easier. I know I am.

There’s so much more I’m planning for you, and having you be a part of choosing the topic for this newsletter was just the beginning. Thank you for your involvement and engagement and support.

I’ll be here as long as you want me.

Forever yours,

Pluto.