Creative juices, the mystery effluent those of us engaged in creative arts reference when snagged on inspiration detaining bedrock, holds as much mystery as dark matter, except one exists as building block of our universe, and the other only as blame pie for our stagnation.
For the writers among us, we write for different reasons. This blog serves as relief valve for my excess thoughts, odd remembrances, and occasional opinions. As I mentioned elsewhere yesterday, it spins as a flywheel, keeping my creative juice flowing through short storytelling when spending the bulk of days, weeks, and months editing novels.
Riatarded, in her post Uninspired Chronicles, asked others to share personal methodology for moving past blockages. Maybe if I faced such a horror, my tale of barrier hopping might provide some insight, but… it never happens to me. WTF?
Perhaps a bit of lyric will illustrate my point, later. We build walls sub-crania, we all do, but in different ways. Some of you might face occasional hardship creating with word but blow past fear and jump out of a well running airplane. I’ll keep my lap belt fastened but write onward, thank you.
Same principle, just applied in a different way. Most of my life, I hid inside, fearing revelation of me to the world. What it took to blow past this equates to a nuclear weapon detonated, at least in result. Yet, I learned some valuable things along the way, including how to pry open inner walls I do not wish to stand in my way.
How would I recommend exorcising blockages to others? Sit. Look around the room, or if outside, take in your environment. Choose the least interesting, the taken for granted, the never noticed. This…becomes your test story subject, because if you can tell its story, the spectacular becomes an afterthought.
“But…I’m looking at a rock no more than four inches long. It’s sort of nondescript grey, flecked with flat black, a surface crack runs across an end, and it looks like a petrified potato. How can I write a story about a rock?”
Well… close your eyes. That rock exists along with you right now, but it carries a longer shelf life. Did it lie in the same spot last year? One hundred years ago? A thousand? Reaching further, zip back a million years, or all the way back to when it hardened out of molten rock, exiting temperatures hotter than any household oven. Over the ensuing time, how did it fracture away from a bigger rock? Did it ever lie in a stream, passed over by interesting stream-bound creatures, shoved along through floods from storms the likes of we rarely see? Weathering forces move rock, so how far a travel for this one. Where did it begin? Has a living creature ever picked it up, played with it, thrown it, and hammered with it, slept on it, or died on it? What would their stories be?
You thought it impossible to make a story out of a rock. What other subjects seem to possess no story? Well, someone stumped claims everything. Blockages…really, someone refusing to see, when the answer comes not by way of our eyes, but from within our minds when we remove shackles from imagination and look beyond the walls we created.
While I mentioned the song before, please read Jefferson Starship’s Hyperdrive lyrics.