Without creativity, writing is just a chore—an endless, effortful dragging out of words, paragraphs, pages. As stated in this quote, which has been attributed to at least eight famous writers: “There’s nothing to writing. All you do is sit down at a typewriter and open a vein.”
Setting aside the apocryphal history and numerous variations of that quote, it describes the challenges of writing for a living, and makes me laugh (grimly) at myself. Some read it as a call to put heart and soul into our words, infusing them with energy, passion and creativity.
One dictionary definition of creativity is “the ability to transcend traditional ideas, rules, patterns, relationships, or the like, and to create meaningful new ideas, forms, methods, interpretations, etc.; originality, progressiveness, or imagination: the need for creativity in modern industry; creativity in the performing arts.” This reminds me that the scope of creativity is broad. When I hear someone say “I’m not creative,” I feel that they might be focused on a narrow perception. Is creativity something to be good at, like art, music or math? What if the door opened a little to emphasize the first part of that definition: transcend traditional ideas, rules, patterns etc. Then it starts to be less of an attribute or talent, and more of a way of thinking. For me, creativity lies in the realm of “what if…” or “I wonder…” It is light and easy, not heavy or rigid.
As I examine my own ways of writing, “what if” is actually a practical tool for accomplishing a piece of work. Hundreds, maybe thousands of times, I’ve adjusted the direction of a writing project when I thought of something that escaped me initially. Reading over some interview notes, perhaps—a word will jump out and light up a corner of the story. If I am not in the “what if” mode, that insight might slip away. As a nonfiction writer, that is part of my creative process. I’ve often felt—and said—that a story is best told when I can figure out how to get out of the way. Then, it can sing and dance with unfettered buoyancy and effervescence.
Creative thought needs nourishment to be its sparkly self. In times of fatigue, illness, stress or sadness, the resources of my body, mind and spirit are deployed elsewhere. That’s an absolute fact—and an important thing for me to realize about the writing life. As the old saying goes, and at the risk of overindulging in the “blood” metaphor, you can’t get blood out a turnip.
During turnip times, I try to breathe, get enough to eat and drink, rest, experience nature and read. There’s no timetable for the return of my creative spirit; it responds to patience, gentleness and encouragement. While it is absent, I deploy other tools to keep words flowing, but with the door still open. This involves a specific technique I learned while doing paid jobs that involved writing for others. Late in the workday, I go to a saved pile of things that don’t require much brainpower. Then the day ends on a note of accomplishment. The next morning, the creative spirit might be waiting there, like Tinker Bell sitting on the edge of my desk, quietly grooming her flight feathers.
