Granite

Whenever I can't think of anything to write (in the vein of prose or poetry), I will often say to other creative people (or anyone who cares) that I've been in a creative rut for "a few weeks" or "lately". The truth is, I've had an abnormal creative block for about 3 years now. The more creative stuff I write these days is nothing to what I used to be able to write back then. The rate at which I produce stuff these days is chump change compared to then.

A fog of mild but heavy despair sets in over the scribe

I used to be able to come up with lengthy substantial stories on the spot. Or more accurately: ideas and outlines. Things came to me far more easily than they do now. If I were to snap my fingers back then, each snap would generate an idea or two. The triggers for creativity were very sensitive. For instance, I would enter a conversation about musicians that, after a few moments, would spiral into a long narrative about romance and the meaning of life. How long would this narrative be? About 3 or 4 pages, minimum. Approaching 10 or more pages, if I were to actually truly, fully, over-the-top-ly expand on details and such.

It upsets me that my general creativity has been crippled for so long. One can only hope that things return to normal, or a state in which I can produce a greater volume of quality stories with greater ease. While one hopes, I try to do things that could possibly kick-start my creative prowess once more. I read, I scribble ideas and stories, I draw odd shapes and bits and pieces, I listen to music all time, I go hiking and wandering around but whatever it is that is holding a ceiling on my imagination and creativity and such cannot seem to be undone or repaired.

A beam of light shines dimly.

No, I'm not being a jerk who's rubbing his own ego. The truth is that a lot of the stuff you read here (the prose and poetry) is chump change compared to the stuff I used to be able to write. Alas, that stuff disappeared because I wasn't careful when hitting delete. But I've learned my lesson. At least, one would hope. But I have in some way. I back up the stories and poems and such that I want to keep and work in greater detail. Or, at the very least, outline the major details that can bleed the rest of the necessary details. On paper. In pen. Yeah. Feels good.

But it still isn't what I used to be able to conjure up.

Let there be light

I suppose I just need motivation. Yes, I had various sorts of motivation back then. Maybe getting older (even slightly) is taking some sort of toll on me. Maybe I've been exerting my creativity in different ways, ways that are unseen by my own eyes or by my own awareness. Or I'm so focused on other things that I don't notice them. This is quite possible.

Or I'm as equally imaginative today as I was then but I subconsciously focus on quality over quantity giving the illusion that I don't create as much work as I feel is adequate when in fact the prose and poetry are actually substantial and meaty rather than flimsy hors d'oeuvres I may have cranked out with great breezy ease. Or I'm simply just a very vicious critic of my abilities.

The scribe ends this entry.