On Creativity
The mountain spring has dried up.
Sometimes, I find writing very easy. I do not have to do anything. In fact, it is of the essence that I do nothing. Something wants to find its voice, to come to life, to live, and my job is simply to get out of the way and allow it to speak.
Now is not such a time. Of late, the words feel stilted and forced. They are not words that need to be said, they are not words that delight in being said. The mountain spring has dried up.
Actually, it's even more painful than that. The spring still flows. I feel its presence, I feel life inside, fresh waters yearning to flow, life wanting to speak, needing to live. But I can't help it. I don't manage to pull away the rubble and get to the place where the true words flow.
Why am I telling you this? Mainly because of a kind of superstition; or if you want to be a bit more Greek about it, as a prayer to the Muses. 15 minutes ago, I sat down to do some work. The idea for this little note floated into my mind. I resolved to put it aside and do the work I had planned to do.
But the idea didn't go away. And then I thought - ideas are gifts, the impulse to create is a gift. Maybe what I'm being given is a little sign, a little encouragement. Or to put it from the other angle - maybe the thing inside me is trying again. Maybe it's knocking very gently, asking me to help it live.
Who knows? Either way, that's why I'm telling you all this now.
Outside, the skies are darkening. Black-blue, and right in front of my window a very old tree.
