Sometimes I worry myself. I sit for hours trying to think of something, and nothing new comes. This pains me, because I create. It's what I do. There is no joy to parallel the creation of that which wasn't but now will always be. I am deprived of that feeling when I can't think of anything.
But I do. I think of everything. Worlds rise and fall in my mind, but I don't choose them. Creativity isn't a conscious process. I can't choose to invent. All I can do is let it craft itself through me when it so chooses. My ideas will be born when they want, and to force them is to hurt them.
I have a notebook gradually filling with ideas. Each could be a novel. Most could be a short story. A few could be poems. For now, I add. One day I intend to craft each of them. For now... I don't know. I'm almost afraid of doing anything more than I do. What if I find I can't do anything but extremely short stories? I've written countless short stories, many poems and a screenplay. A screenplay-in-progress. It has the plot points it needs, but it needs fleshing out.
I've never written anything resembling a novel. The Apocalypse could be the longest thing I've written. I'm afraid.
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God Bless you Reogan, hang in there, it will come again.
ReplyDeleteThere is nothing wrong with a shorter story. Look at Ernest Hemingway! I happen to think you're a fantastic writer--better than I am. You're wonderfully descriptive (especially in those sonnets you've written recently), you can rhyme and keep meter almost automatically when you write poetry, and (most importantly), you don't shy away from the creativity that fills your mind. Don't worry; you are a great writer.
ReplyDeleteHappiness smiles
ReplyDeleteAnd grants me the sort of friends
That encourage me.
See, that haiku was great! And very kind, thank you.
ReplyDelete