What is creativity? How is it tempered and harnessed into a concrete element that can be labelled: skill?
I have thought about writing more, Perhaps – it is safe to say – I have thought more about writing than I have actually written.
It seems pondering is the sole skill to which I have some degree of competency. Yet, my pondering lacks the essential catalyst needed to coalesce thoughts into ideas and ideas into actions.
I have a real respect for those who create something through personal ingenuity. My creative process is rife with periods of frustration. I am often stymied into inaction.
As I write this, I have no particular aim. Where others would speak their thoughts aloud.
For me… I write them.
I’ve been intrigued by writing. Perhaps, it is better to say I’ve been intrigued by great writers who inspire me to want to create something memorable.
To that end, I am currently reading Finding Your Writer’s Voice. A Guide to Creative Fiction. by Thaisa Frank & Dorothy Wall.
They suggest free writing: writing whatever comes to mind. Writing for a past or current experience.
To clear my head, I was – and still am at this very moment – Listening to
this is the result of my efforts – I thought I would share.
taking steps to waltz to Rachmaninoff, tentative motion flowed into explosive elegance.
Like a path in a garden littered with detritus of musical instruments. Flowers in bloom of multiple colours: Burnt Orange, Dusky Purple so intense it’s almost black – or black so deep it is almost purple, Electric Blues and Yellows but no green in sight.
It’s a garden where one gets lost.
In getting lost, the crescendo builds. Each step a punctuation of piano keys, each breath a note that signals symmetry, of creation of motion. As the fingers running across they keys slows. So does the garden Runner. Chest heaving, palms sweating, heart beating.
The dance has ended.There is no partner.
It is a dance by oneself. Alone. There is no sun. The garden is sheltered from all, sheltered from reality. It is a garden of the mind.