The Prisoner...
I have a massive
amount of respect and sympathy for tortured creative souls…
There was a time where I just didn’t get it; the grief that comes with being one of those people who is constantly looking to pull everything they see/say/do into something that is their outlet du jour at the next moment they will arrive to their medium to do so. As I have been back writing for the last 16+ months with an all-new focus here, I see it more than ever.
There was a time where I just didn’t get it; the grief that comes with being one of those people who is constantly looking to pull everything they see/say/do into something that is their outlet du jour at the next moment they will arrive to their medium to do so. As I have been back writing for the last 16+ months with an all-new focus here, I see it more than ever.
I look back to the
last time I was actually motivated and I see it. I finished my novel in 30 days, all 50k words
of it. Waking up at 5am to pound out an
idea brewing. Carrying a flash drive
with me everywhere and writing without eating lunch. Ignoring the whole-ass world around me, for better
or worse. I did it all. Two of the four albums I listened to for that
September/October month were Miles Davis’ Kind
of Blue and Gil Scott-Heron’s Winter
in America. If ever there was a
succinct definition of tortured creative souls, these two men – creative heroes
of mine – are it. I didn’t see it as it
happened and it took me years in the twilight to see it, but I get it more now
than ever.
I can’t escape my
thoughts. I get that
The best I can hope to do is harness my thoughts and carry them with me to an healthier release than I had been prior able to. I carry my thoughts around with me, save them until I am at a keyboard and I adapt them. They become a True Story©. They become my tweets. They are random silliness. The important thing, though, is that I am doing something with them.
The best I can hope to do is harness my thoughts and carry them with me to an healthier release than I had been prior able to. I carry my thoughts around with me, save them until I am at a keyboard and I adapt them. They become a True Story©. They become my tweets. They are random silliness. The important thing, though, is that I am doing something with them.
Back to the
beginning, though…
I am at that point where I am becoming a tortured creative soul. I feel this NEED to release what I am thinking to the atmosphere. I do it mostly unfiltered, I don’t seek permission or even ask forgiveness. I do what I do.
But I ENJOY it. That is the most important part. I don’t much give a shit if y’all laugh (but I know you do), so long as I do. The value in my creative outlet is blowing steam off of the metaphorical pipe. I could sit on my ideas and watch them die a slow death or I can throw them up and see what sticks.
I am at that point where I am becoming a tortured creative soul. I feel this NEED to release what I am thinking to the atmosphere. I do it mostly unfiltered, I don’t seek permission or even ask forgiveness. I do what I do.
But I ENJOY it. That is the most important part. I don’t much give a shit if y’all laugh (but I know you do), so long as I do. The value in my creative outlet is blowing steam off of the metaphorical pipe. I could sit on my ideas and watch them die a slow death or I can throw them up and see what sticks.
My life feels a
ton better for my throwing them out. I’m
having fun.
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