EMERGENCY: Your Creativity is Dying

Writing can be daunt­ing as much as it is exquis­itely intox­i­cat­ing. Every day I think about what I’m going to write and rarely do I make the time do it. I don’t take the time to acknowl­edge this insa­tiable thirst I have to express myself in a mean­ing­ful way. Or at least a way that means some­thing to me.

I seem to fet­ter myself in fear. Could I really be great? Maybe I’m not as good as I think I am, or maybe I haven’t even dis­cov­ered what I am. And then I chide myself for being ego­tis­ti­cal. I know I can write. I AM a writer.

Whether a ref­er­ence, an arti­cle, a pre­sen­ta­tion, I know how to wield words with a pur­pose. And yet for some rea­son, when the pur­pose is for me, I spend more time think­ing about it, than actu­ally doing it.

There’s always some­thing else that takes pri­or­ity or that absolutely must be done. My daugh­ter needs home­work help. Work must be done and bills must be paid. I need to go to the gym and attend to these buggy whips I have for arms, or I won’t be able to write any­way. And so it goes.

So, for today, I am tak­ing up Joe;s chal­lenge. I am hon­our­ing myself and I am mak­ing the time to just do it. I don’t know where it is going or how it will end but I do know I feel the ela­tion flow through my fin­gers as I type. My heart is beat­ing boldly, and excit­edly. And I have dis­cov­ered a splen­did smile that has sud­denly sprouted as the words flow forth.

And now here it comes. I made the mis­take of look­ing up at the clock. The min­utes tick by ago­nis­ingly slowly now. 9 min­utes have flown by but I have six more to go. I am work­ing my way into an immo­bi­liz­ing frenzy. Is what I have writ­ten here pure dri­vel? And if it is, does it matter?

If my pur­pose is just to write, then I sup­pose I am suc­ceed­ing. In fact, I am excelling! I am hon­our­ing! And now I am feel­ing proud. I am on the up-side of the teeter-totter and like the high. I know it’s going to drop again so I enjoy the moment while it’s here.

I notice that the words awk­wardly retreat on the down-swing. And I slide toward the pud­dle of panic-mode that eagerly awaits my arrival as I swiftly descend. I bet­ter got off this ride. This vex­ing vac­il­lat­ing is mak­ing me dizzy.

I should have turned off the tv. Its inces­sant blath­er­ing is buzzing in the back­ground and dis­tract­ing me. FOCUS. One minute to go. My fin­gers have slowed. I hes­i­tate won­der­ing which words will come next. And now it’s done. I feel so relieved.

There's a jolt as you move from uncon­scious to con­scious, and even before you open your eyes, the thought is there. You don't want it to be true. Please, can it be a dream. God, make it a dream, an imag­i­na­tion, some­thing my brain has cre­ated, from another dimen­sion, any­thing but real. Is it real? Yes, it's real.

So you swing your feet out over the side of the bed, pull your hands up to the sides of your head, and begin your plan. I have to call mother. And then the kids. And then, oh God, there's Jake. And of course there's the money. Did he tell you where he kept the money? No. You'll just have to find it.

You hear Kathryn still asleep behind you. Thank God for her. She will get you through this. God gave her to you for a time like this.

It's time to move. You take a breath, turn to look at your sleep­ing wife, and stand. So it begins.