When I am not writing and I’m about my daily tasks, driving, on a ladder (not driving on a ladder, before you ask) sometimes I think. Other times I am so immersed in an action, it takes me over. There is almost no thought, just cues that come from nowhere and are received without being censored or second guessed.
I make things with my hands, I use my eyes and my vision to create something. It’s like writing, but it makes your skin rougher and your back sorer.
Sometimes alone, I’ll laugh aloud.
The perfect phrase will come to me, fiendishly irreverent, I’ll wonder if I could even repeat that to someone else. Maybe I could take a risk, the bigger the risk the greater the potential upset. The greater the prize.
Flashes of genius alight when I have no way to keep them with me. I catch them out of the corner of my eye. When I try to grab those delicate things, bright and beautiful, they elude me.
Imagine a clumsy silverback, drunk from eating overripe fruit, perched on top of a roof swaying and tipping alarmingly as he waves a huge butterfly net as that ephemeral creature, that perfect idea, flits away erratically one way and the other, the way a single leaf sometimes drops from a tall tree.
That leaf etches itself indelibly upon your memory as if it were the first of the season to fall, at once a symbol of a beginning and an unavoidable end, a reminder of grace, mortality and birth. The one that got away.
As much as I know those thoughts don’t belong to me, do I covet, desire to possess them, revel in them and pass them off as my own delightful creations.
I have long periods of absence from creativity. Like an inpenetrable cloud of trite nonsense has descended and covered the horizon in every direction you look. It’s a big steaming, stinking load of shit.
Before I can come back to my writing I want to feel that I will say something to enthrall or enthuse you. The longer I leave it the more overcome with self consciousness and the more certain that I will fail.
How can I refresh myself and return anew to writing? Sometimes I have to leave it alone for so long that I have forgotten what I wrote.
You know the way you might remember speaking to a pretty girl and making a complete twat of yourself. The mortification revisits you as if it were happening now.
It’s a bit like that.