Wednesday, July 11, 2012

Joy in the Creative Process

Some FaceBook friends of mine prompted me to start writing again. All I seem to be accomplishing, however, is either poems, or Musing on the Creative Process. In an attempt to prove to them that I am writing…sort of—LOL—I decided to share in my musings.

One of the topics that came up the other day was “Family-itis”—meaning, real life gets in the way of what we really want to do …with our life! I am reminded of a lovely lady, Carol Ding, who I met at the World Science Fiction Convention in Philadelphia in 2001. She was creative in many areas, not just writing. Her photos were magnificent. And I seem to remember she sewed as well, plus other crafty kinds of things. She’s dead now, of an aneurism in the brain. Walking around normal one minute, and gone the next. What I’m trying to say with this story is that I don’t think it matters, really, whether we turn into the next J.K. Rowling, or Beethoven, or whomever.  What matters, really, is that we have fun before we die.

Easier said than done, I know. But it CAN BE DONE! It’s a slow process of weeding out the unnecessary things in your life. Several years ago, there was a task at work that was driving me crazy. I delegated it to someone else [now he’s going crazy, poor guy, but I will not relent!]. I refuse to feel guilty for spreading the work around for others to do.

Balance is the key. I do not make a fortune. Deliberately. I want my TIME to create! I take that time…. At least I try. Yeah, the “Family-itis” got me down recently too. It’s so easy to devolve  into “Let Me Help You With That”…[sigh]. But I AM IMPORTANT TOO!!! [you need to tell yourself] Don’t you forget that! Make the time for yourself. Make it happen TODAY!

Oh, and so I can show my FaceBook team that I’m really being creative with my writing, here’s the poem I wrote on Monday:


Continent’s edge—
Sea stacks, sea fog,
Sunset’s glow…
Briny waves clacking rocks.

Rocks worn by time…
Tapping against each other…
Tide, waves keep
Them moving.

Three gray oblong rocks
Brought home as souvenirs—
Heavy in the suitcase—

Now on my dusty dresser,
Not wet or moving
Yet smooth to the touch.


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