As I write this from my bed, the tv sound system continues to rumble its siren song. Something about cars, being fast, being continually and increasingly furious. But sleep calls to me, and I soon will answer.
The day was…remarkable in that it was almost wholly unremarkable. A secret project continued. Packages arrived. Words were written. Ideas discussed. Supper made. Entertainment entertaining.
One adventurous writer has chosen to write a short story in a set of haikus. The concept is beauty and tragedy bound by a rigid syllabic pattern.
Another writer is taking an intensely literal route in telling of dirt. The assistant director said, you don’t have to be so literal. I added: But you can be. Behind many literal stories are metaphors, perhaps unintended by the author but there nonetheless. The human condition is storied. And humans find stories where others saw only piles of words.
We have a medieval knight tale brewing. We have a story cloaked in secrecy. And then there’s me.
I haven’t told a proper story in a long while. Like exercising any muscle after ages of disuse, writing this week has come slowly and in full lack of coordination. I didn’t remember how to story. Or how to idea. From whence do ideas come? How does one incite ideas to flow? What you may not know is that creative work takes a good growing season, fine slow roasting, a steady grind, measured selections, and unhasty percolation. The negative difference in any one facet spoils the taste. What kills creativity? A poverty of time. Rushing. Shortcuts. Full jumps to the end.
I’ve not spent time sowing creativity as of late. My harvest is slight. My time feels short. But feelings aren’t objective reality—though what truly is? Time passes whether I create or don’t. How did I let the savor suffer so long?
And so I return to process. Hands in fertile soil. Watchfully plucking the mature fruit. Making busy my hands while the fruit roasts and readies. It is a process longer than a week and one that self perpetuates when allowed. The land must be worked and the machines oiled. But the stories will someday flow again
Goodnight my campers and goodnight my readers. I go to walk the rows of fledgling notions.