Okay, okay, I know you’re seeing the title and potentially going into concern mode, but please don’t. It’s really not a big deal; it’s a challenge that everyone goes through just because…that’s life. This is more about recovering suppressed creativity and reclaiming a zeal for life.
It sounds bad, I know. It sounds suspiciously like depression, or something worse. But it’s not. It’s just…*sigh*….the numbness that comes with dealing with catastrophe?
That’s not even enough to describe it. It doesn’t need to be a negative thing. Despite all that I’ve written so far, I don’t intend for it to come across as negative, or positive for that matter. More and more I’ve tried to stop labeling the obstacles in life as good or bad, and just let them exist while focusing on how to react when the situation turns sour. There’s no need to rush.
After all that nonsense with what was going on at work, I kept up writing very regularly, and even posted some of it. At the moment, I have 5-7 posts germinating in the drafts folder waiting to be finished and posted.
Sadly, it seems that they are doomed to wait there forever, trapped in their eternal prison.
Unless I experience a moment of catharsis and finish every single unfinished project I’ve ever started.
As if that’s going to happen.
Within a few weeks of this initial burst, I lost momentum. I couldn’t find anything to write about even though there’s enough material in the world to last the lifetimes of everyone who has ever lived and then some. When I came up with things I thought would be awesome, I put them aside for later exploration. But when I returned to them, they became lame like a good dream spoken aloud.
Then I remembered I’m not supposed to care what anyone thinks, and writing for the sake of writing is a good thing.
Recently I had the opportunity to have a brief chat with a young artist. She’s around 10 years old, and still maintains the habit of drawing whenever and whatever as she feels like it. I was reminded of the reckless abandon with which I got excited about stories and art and drawing and dragons and shit.
Being a kid was so amazing, I wish I could go back with what I know now.
And just like that, I’ve said something annoying and cliché.
This characteristic I used to have has all but deteriorated in recent years as I ascended into adulthood and realized that no one cares. You have to make them care, and I found that the energy expended was never worth the reaction. I also probably overestimated what someone could get out of something that I wrote or made, which is an argument I will forever have with myself.
“Who do you think you are that you can make people feel happy? Why do they care what YOU have to say? Better not quit that day job, fatty.”
Truthfully, this is less important to me than the deadening of my sensitivities to art and music. I try to surround myself with good art and good music, but nothing impacts me so much anymore. That one track from Kid Cudi that I listened to whenever I wanted to get work done just doesn’t slap the way it used to. It is strange and saddening to feel like I can’t have the same experience with music that I once did.
I do miss feeling like I can make whatever I want and feel free to explore ideas without cancelling them before they’re complete. It’s possible I’ve abandoned many potentially successful and profitable intellectual properties that could have entered this world because I thought they’d be too sucky.
It has never been more difficult for me to write stories or do drawings in my life, and I’m not sure if it’s because that part of myself has broken off somewhere along the way, or I’m just really, really, tired. Perhaps if I sleep for 15+ hours this whole self-sabotage nonsense will end and I can be free to flutter around whatever science fiction, fantasy, and drama worlds that I’ve created for myself.
Somehow I doubt there is a thermal exhaust port that will fix everything by exploding, but a girl can dream.
Super Husband Man tells me that this is how every artist is. Everyone struggles to know what to write about or draw about. But this stuff just used to flow out of my fingers and onto the page no matter how crappy it was. It was like reaching up into a river and feeling it lend me a stream of knowledge that would let me write or draw forever and ever. Now the river seems to have changed course, and I’m struggling to access those juicy, juicy, ideas again.
Maybe I there’s a different river I need to find.
Or maybe the answer is peyote. I hear psychedelics are making a comeback. Is a spirit quest the answer?
I’m actually fairly certain the answer for myself is to shut the f*ck up, stop complaining, and get back to work. These world-changing stories aren’t going to write themselves, you know.