Creating. One of those things muddleheaded people try to define. Makes me think of the introduction to the poetry book Robin Williams makes the boys tear out. You know the movie. At least I hope so.
Artists. Artists of every ilk think about creating all the time, entrenched in the belief that what they’re doing is in some way more “creative” than the next person. Total load of crap. There’s somebody out there fashioning a table or a chair or machining engine parts that’s doing a hell of a lot more creating than most artists. This is not some perverse defense mechanism or self-flagellation; only saying that almost everything involves creating.
I’m taking a break for a moment, trying to finish a gnarly novel. Feels like hacking away at the Gordian Knot while a guy with the right stuff and the right sword is taking a nap in the other room.
There is no other guy. No magic sword. Just me and the thing I can’t finish, the thing I can’t quite create. Two things I try to let run through my head when the flow isn’t flowing and the walls are closing in: First, shut up. There’s an ideal up there, a picture of perfection that’s bottling up the progress. Ideals aren’t real. Perfect is a bedtime story, so just get it done and move on. This ain’t Plato’s Cave, it’s just life. Two, who cares? No really, who cares? When I’m agonizing, thinking the next sentence or the next plot point is going to make or break the space-time continuum, I give myself a gentle reminder that it’s not that big of a frigging deal. A gentle reminder usually includes thinking back to that thing that had to happen and didn’t.
It so didn’t happen. But other stuff did.
Well. Captain Obvious better get back to work. See you after.