Some days I write thousands of words and soak in their imaginary meanings like a healing hot tub.
And then some days, I have no desire to write. There is no fulfillment in either the act or the outcome.
Why this inconsistency of creativity?
It’s not writer’s block. There’s no fear.
It’s something like a shift in circadian rhythm.
My creative clock doesn’t tick according to night or day; Hallmark holidays, patriotic holidays or religious sacristy. It doesn’t bow to the lunar cycle or bend to the ocean tides. But if I examine its pattern a little more closely, it does seem to follow the four seasons – the solstices and the equinoxes.
Right now in the Northern Hemisphere – in the middle-of-nowhere desert where I live – it’s summer.
The days are warm with azure skies in the mornings and monsoon thundershowers in the afternoons.
The sky is center stage. It’s theater is spectacularly bold and diverse. Its performances are fully absorbing and keep me curious.
I’m satisfied at a core level, at a visceral, molecular stratum of being.
And I’m going to posit here that I’m not just simply lazy; I’m actually content and at peace.
When I exist in this place of balance, I’m withdrawn from the urge – or the need – to create.
Because I’m complete.
For three months, perhaps.
My inner world is not having temper tantrums. It’s not needy, desperate, dwelling in its wounds, picking its soul-scabs.
And when stillness rests over my private cosmos, I’m not inclined to write or create in any venue.
I’ll suggest that creativity is, in part, at least, the heart’s quest for fulfillment; the ego’s cry to preach; the spirit’s hunger to bite the marrow inside the bone.
If I x-ray myself, I see a world of chaos and haze; of potholes and teardrops; of fears and muddy, gravel-less roads of quicksand.
It’s a messy tableau.
It craves order.
So it tries to collect all its stray cats and thrust them outward in an act of creation that’s volcanic. Eruptively beautiful, poignant, provocative, disturbing – an objet d’art that purges some inner pain and places it tangibly in the physical world for others to bask in.
Be moved by. Feel empathy with. Turn away in disgust at the cavernous echoes it sends back to their own hidden wreckage.
A peek at the creative process from a different angle.
This slantview: part selfish; part reverential . . . may be skewed.
Back to those summer days, though. I do find myself passively reading. Like a chipmunk gathering stock for the winter, I collect word-concepts for the burst of creative urgency that nips at the frigid hiney of every Winter Solstice.
A life-cycle that I’m unconscious of until I step back and watch myself with all the marionette strings severed.
A lightning flash of a new landscape blinks.
It’s a veil unblackened.
There’s a temptation to draw a conclusion.
But, I know the little assassin in my mind will shoot bullet holes in whatever billboard I erect.
So, I’ll hug darkness with wonderment.