On inspiration, creativity
Last week I was in Boston for the Heart Failure Society of America annual conference. Wonderful city, and there were some interesting tidbits from the conference, but that's not what I'm writing about.
On the plane home, I was watching some of the in-flight entertainment when I suddenly felt a flash of inspiration. I had something about which I wanted to write, this feeling that started in my gut, moved up to my throat, and ended up just behind my eyes. Immediately I flip to a blank page at the back of my work notebook, grab a pen, and .... and proceed to stare at the empty page, not knowing where to begin. After the longest minute I've experienced in a while, I forced myself to write a few words even though they weren't right, just trying to overcome the inertia of years without creative writing. Yes, I managed to get some ink on paper. I filled front and back without too much pause or difficulty. And then I looked at my work product, reviewed what I had written. It came across totally uninspired, just a collection of though fragments that fell far short of capturing the visceral feeling that had prompted me to pick up the pen in the first place. It had neither rhythm nor rhyme, lacking any aesthetic in form, sound, even vocabulary.
What has happened here? It isn't for lack of inspiration: I continue to be inspired by the places to which I've been fortunate enough to travel, by the people with whom I share my life and with whom I work, by the concepts, ideas, and stories I read or hear. It isn't for lack of creativity either: as part of my job I have the opportunity and the expectation to invent, to solve problems in new ways, to innovate. I still see the world through my own lens, still let my mind wander while driving and running. It seems that I've just forgotten how to write something that is creative but non-technical. Even playing my guitar more over the last year than in the past few years, I realize that I've been revisiting songs from my high school and early college days, not dabbling much in the way of improvisation, just keeping my fingers and voice in shape but not training my mind to think along the fretboard.
The idea of carrying a notebook in my back pocket has been appealing for a long time. I wanted something to help me capture thoughts in the moment, whether in words or in pictures. Every time I go to a paper craft store with Kristin I hover over the Moleskine notebooks, trying to decide which one would be the best size, and then whether I would want ink or graphite to accompany it. In reality, now, I see that even with a notebook I would probably fall short of my vision for creative capture, at least until I've practiced enough to regain the facility with which poetic wordscapes used to flow. I used to be a pretty good writer with capability to take on a number of styles, but now my style is honed for scientific manuscripts, study protocols, whitepapers, and patent applications. Here's hoping to exercise that now-shrunken part of my brain that creates stories, verse, and music.
On the plane home, I was watching some of the in-flight entertainment when I suddenly felt a flash of inspiration. I had something about which I wanted to write, this feeling that started in my gut, moved up to my throat, and ended up just behind my eyes. Immediately I flip to a blank page at the back of my work notebook, grab a pen, and .... and proceed to stare at the empty page, not knowing where to begin. After the longest minute I've experienced in a while, I forced myself to write a few words even though they weren't right, just trying to overcome the inertia of years without creative writing. Yes, I managed to get some ink on paper. I filled front and back without too much pause or difficulty. And then I looked at my work product, reviewed what I had written. It came across totally uninspired, just a collection of though fragments that fell far short of capturing the visceral feeling that had prompted me to pick up the pen in the first place. It had neither rhythm nor rhyme, lacking any aesthetic in form, sound, even vocabulary.
What has happened here? It isn't for lack of inspiration: I continue to be inspired by the places to which I've been fortunate enough to travel, by the people with whom I share my life and with whom I work, by the concepts, ideas, and stories I read or hear. It isn't for lack of creativity either: as part of my job I have the opportunity and the expectation to invent, to solve problems in new ways, to innovate. I still see the world through my own lens, still let my mind wander while driving and running. It seems that I've just forgotten how to write something that is creative but non-technical. Even playing my guitar more over the last year than in the past few years, I realize that I've been revisiting songs from my high school and early college days, not dabbling much in the way of improvisation, just keeping my fingers and voice in shape but not training my mind to think along the fretboard.
The idea of carrying a notebook in my back pocket has been appealing for a long time. I wanted something to help me capture thoughts in the moment, whether in words or in pictures. Every time I go to a paper craft store with Kristin I hover over the Moleskine notebooks, trying to decide which one would be the best size, and then whether I would want ink or graphite to accompany it. In reality, now, I see that even with a notebook I would probably fall short of my vision for creative capture, at least until I've practiced enough to regain the facility with which poetic wordscapes used to flow. I used to be a pretty good writer with capability to take on a number of styles, but now my style is honed for scientific manuscripts, study protocols, whitepapers, and patent applications. Here's hoping to exercise that now-shrunken part of my brain that creates stories, verse, and music.
posted by Stu at 9:38 AM
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