Here I Sit, Straining, Trying

Some of the individuals around us are reluctant, sometimes regretful owners of an additional, purely extraneous bodily function. When this extra system is hyperactive, they will most likely be trapped at home, face-scrunched, hunched over, letting something out violently. If suffering from the opposite problem, they may be seen in public, but will nonetheless endure intense internal pain. This extra function, which causes various forms of discomfort and only rarely brings pleasure, is creativity. Though not as visceral as the likely product of your imagination, creativity imposes demands which can approach biological needs.

Every profession has its own challenges, but few involve problems as intractable as those of artists. Most have no control over when their creativity strikes. And when it does, they often feel the need to find a private space where they can let it out. That can be difficult for friends and family to understand. The opposite feeling, an inability to produce, aches in a metaphysical way that can make an artist feel worthless as they sit, straining away to no result. In my experience, most jobs can be done in a variety of physical conditions. Even hung over, sleep deprived, or in intestinal distress, I’ve been able to scrape through and finish my work, even as a ranch hand and a soldier. It is indeed a rare occupation where one shows up to work but is nonetheless unable to perform, and for no good reason.

As an aspiring writer, my creativity has come to feel like a responsibility. Almost a compulsion, I feel the need to persist and try to produce something every day. Even if I ultimately flush away the product, it exerts its own pressure to exit my creative tract. But it adds another demand on my time and energy, on top of fitness, food, and socializing. Sometimes I sit through an intense session of verbal diarrhea, totally lacking in substance, which spills out onto the page nonetheless. Other times I experience writer’s blockage (AKA penstipation), and wonder when it will come unstuck. Though I’m slowly getting used to the demands of creativity, I’m nowhere near proficient yet.

More disturbing than this drawn-out excrement metaphor, but at the source of its inspiration, is the feeling that everything I produce is shit, even if it looks or smells a bit different from yesterday’s. Having stood witness to the process that produced it, and knowing that it comes from a deeply flawed, enduringly immature individual, it’s hard for me to see value in my work. I’m starting to see that creativity requires something beyond timing: I need to become comfortable with my thoughts, no matter how much they look and smell like shit.

I spared this one a flush, but I’m not sure it was the right choice.

Thanks to SantiMB for the photo! 

https://www.flickr.com/photos/smb_flickr/