The pen often runs dry—like faith, like ambition, a friend of mine once wrote. It is an inevitability, part of the artist’s plight. In times like these, it feels like there’s not much I can do to stave off the drought but let it pass. You could say Creativity and I are in a bit of a toxic situationship. When it’s here, I let its whims take me however they will: toss me about, rough me up a little, it’s fun, it’s exciting, and it seldom lasts. That’s fine, I’ll think, bargaining. When it’s ready for something real, I’m sure it will find me. I don’t beg for it to come to me: I don’t chase, I attract, jumping through all the typical hoops of self-delusion. I think that I don’t want to scare Creativity away with desperation—maybe if I stay perfectly still, perfectly silent, it will come to me, as if it’s a stray kitten or something. And if I ever happen to ignore its often-inconvenient calls—something I’ll admit I still do from time to time, in favor of other responsibilities—it punishes me by ghosting me. Inspiration is a flighty thing, or maybe I’m just forgetful.
This cat-and-mouse game used to not bother me so much. I used to feel as if I had the luxury to wait for creativity to call. Now, every second waiting feels like time wasted, effort squandered. This drawing and writing thing isn’t just a hobby for me anymore. This is what I’ve chosen as my livelihood—oh god, this is what will clothe, house, feed me—how could I sit around waiting for Creativity to come home? How long will I leave the light on for it? When deadlines come, what excuse will I use when I have nothing to show for all that time spent waiting?
But then again, forcing inspiration feels like adding a splash of water to an empty jar of marinara and swirling it around to get the last dredges out, seeing how far you can stretch it without it all becoming flavorless. Or worse, like squeezing teenage legs into dressing room jeans—it doesn’t fit right, and you just feel worse for even trying. I’ve tried asserting mastery over my creative process time and time again. I have yet to manage to beat Creativity into obedience (really, convenience, if I’m being honest), and all it does is make me angry.
I could try to diagnose the source of the problem. Maybe a tryst with Perfectionism is the real issue—she restricts, pressures, chokes out whatever Creativity and I may have, poisons my inspiration under her scrutiny. But I can’t seem to shake her, either. I’m not even sure I want to. She is so deeply intertwined with my ambition, and I carry a sense of pride in the fact that my expectations of myself and the standards I hold to are sky-high, even if I will eventually suffocate from the altitude. So what is left for me to do? Maybe I will have to resort to begging after all.
I’ve gone through just about every stage of grief over these dry spells (especially when they linger), except for acceptance. In everything, I’ve always been better at struggling than surrendering to that part. I’m a guilty subscriber to the notion that the greatest of art is a result of some immense pressure, dramatic struggle, or power play. The language of contentedness never translates well on paper. At least for me. If this is true, shouldn’t it be a good thing, then, if I lack inspiration? Wouldn’t that mean I’m at peace? Yet, without creating, I couldn’t be—and if I am, I’m likely discontented—if not to fuel the production, then with the product itself. Quite the paradox I’ve wound around myself (but I enjoy the struggle, don’t I?)
That same friend, a poet, in a time just like this one, wrote:
write twelve words / he told himself
to describe this / inability to write
and then be free of it.
It’s simplistic and by no means revolutionary, just like this piece may read, but maybe this is my acceptance. Acknowledging the stagnancy of the mind, forcing creativity under the light and saying, yes—I am afraid of your absence, your unpredictability, but it will not last, and I will persist despite, despite, and love you all the same—you stem from me, not I from you. Like faith. Like ambition.