What were you doing when not writing?

--- or couldn't write

Today, join me in thinking about creativity and writing.

I’ve recently discovered this sweet simple truth about creativity, as it was staring right in my face - it being painfully obvious and me, slightly oblivious. Even though I had heard about it numerous times, I’d never really understood it in all its essence and seriousness, having dismissed it as a cliche.

What, then, is this mysteriously plain idea, you ask?

You will not always feel like it - like jotting down ideas as they come knocking at the doors of your mind, like going back to a piece you had started working on and are stuck as opposed to wanting to start over with new inspiration. You will not feel like plainly putting your pen to paper or fingers to your keyboard but would miraculously expect your superhuman future self to figure it all out - later.

Why, therefore, despite these unglamorous affairs of writing, and creativity in general, do writers or artists of any sort exist at all?

I think I found the answer for myself, as was done by writers over millennia for themselves - for the stubbornness of it, to let stay put the sheer presence of writing in my life and the silent reckoning I had had years ago that no matter what, if there’s something in my life that I’d continue doing, come rain or sun, it’s this - that I’d rather be writing in my life than not.

This overarching perspective can be trusted to steer you back into your craft when you’ve lost your way but the limitation here is that it won’t activate itself unless such an extreme detour occurs.

So, the next question I asked was, what’s to be done, then, on a weekly and daily basis?

Of course, it’s easier to work on some days than others but going off the radar for too long will make it harder for inspiration to commune with you. One would have to opt to still engage with creativity; albeit entirely unrelated to one’s craft as it may seem, it might be holding open doors for staying in the loop.

So, that’s what I did.

I read works of writers across time and space, letting them blow my mind that we are recipients of such intricate knowledge about the big and equally small ideas that must have been running through their heads hundreds and thousands of years ago as much as someone who’s living and writing as we are, right now. I painted, again. And again.

I listened to podcasts of writers and their stories. I, then, meditated and tried to look towards nature, outward and inward. I cooked something and packed it up for a picnic in the park. Trying something new humbled me and served as a hearty-laughter quota for others to see me struggle with the basics.

As I cracked open this chest of treasure, I cracked myself open to let the novel light of experience illuminate me and plunge me into sensitive areas of reflection. I hope we all can continue interacting with our secondary sources of inspiration when our primary well runs dry!