I’m reading a book right now called “The Element” by a Mr. Robinson (Robison? I forget off-hand), that discusses creativity, its relation to intelligence, and how the government-mandated public education system sucks for exposing kids to the things they need to be well-adjusted people and creative individuals (quite fascinating! I am eager to see if he has any solutions to the issue). He also talks a lot about achieving “The Element,” a form of Taoist wei-wu-wei, where the individual is fully in the moment of their creative passion.
(And ‘creativity’ is not just with paints or music or sports; he widens the scope to include everything, including math, science, and more.)
Anyhow. It has me thinking a lot about my own creativity, and where it all came from.
I think I’ve always been fascinated with words. More correctly, how words sounded when strung together. Which is probably why I took to music early on — I didn’t really “get” the whole language/writing thing until Shakespeare and Poe in high school, and I didn’t know how to pursue it myself since there were no classes in ‘creative writing’ until college….
But even now, it’s almost orgasmic (aw, hell, who am I kidding? It IS orgasmic) when I hear a well-crafted sentence… It’s almost like words, in the right combinations, sing.
I love that, and maybe I’m crazy, but that’s how I hear it.
When I write, I’m not staring at the text. While I’m visually in the world, I’m mostly hearing it. I’m hearing the wind in the trees, the sound of grass on a glass bottle carried by a little girl (in “Dream-Drinker”). The rush of water, a cold sound, or the heady buzz of insects that always seems to accompany a summer afternoon. I’m hearing people speak, listening to how they walk, how they move.
I think that’s always been my fascination.