More Often
5-minute read
Musings about creativity and the pain of being concise as you can probably tell by this subtitle
“Why don’t you write more often” is a question I ask myself on the daily. Even when I don’t ask it explicitly, it’s still there, somewhere in the back of my head, mixed in with other anxieties and a headache.
While I don’t write very often, my mind still stirs, and I have found that I am actually quite apt at making excuses. “I have a presentation to prepare” (not that I’ve really started it, as I live for that last-minute rush); “I have a book to read” (it is eyeing me down from my nightstand, probably angry that I’ve put a pair of earrings and an empty teacup on it to hold), “I just don’t have time” (said in a grave tone, while I proceed to stare off into the distance like I’ll get all my answers from that one pesky crack on the floor) and my favorite, “I’m just not really inspired right now” (as if the stars would have to align for my self-righteous creativity to rise to a boil).
Alas, it has now been a year since I began this article, and here I am again – the proof is in the pudding – which by the way sounds utterly disgusting, even if the proof is a metaphysical concept, I just don’t want it in my pudding – where was I?
Ah yes, in the pudding; because these excuses make it sound like I would, in fact, write if I didn’t have these other obligations, or if I were inspired. Having had a year to mull this over, as well as six weeks of diligent confinement, which have felt like a plethora of smaller years in themselves and in which I have sprouted many a gray hair of wisdom – I am digressing again and I shan’t apologize for it – here is what I think:
Somewhere along the way I convinced myself that I shouldn’t write if I’m not proving a point, that all writing must be elegant, convey something and convince someone other than me. Now that I’ve come to this realization and brought you along too, here’s another hot take: that is a steaming pile of crock.
My very first journal was so ugly. It was a faux leather number with a marbled blue cover that just read “Diary,” but I was 9 so it really didn’t matter.
To my knowledge, the very first ‘piece’ I’ve ever written bore the noble name of ‘Winter.’ It was a minuscule story about how it was cold, and the mountains looked like they were wearing delicate cardigans (it was the snow, the snow was the cardigan).
Another one I wrote as a kid told the tale of a rainy day so intense, it had made raging rivers of the steep streets in my hometown. A stray dog stood in a corner “like a wet chicken” (which by the way is a fan favorite, my parents won’t let me live it down).
The point I am trying to make in many words as is my habit is that writing is an end goal in itself. You did the thing. Now it’s materialized somewhere, in a cloud or a piece of paper. Go you!
I reckon the silhouettes of elaborate academic papers have danced around me, Matisse-style, long enough to make me forget the simple delight of writing about a raging river of rainwater or a snowy mountain.
Having intelligent things to write about seems to have thrown many a curveball at me, convincing me that creativity is only okay if you have something to prove. Then I suppose that is a ridiculous thought to have, because what needs proving in putting words on paper, but how often I have stared at a blank page with hands that itch to write.
In the haze and daze that is my mind, where thoughts gallop and cut each other in line like in a busy market, writing, though often reflective of that chaos in its subordinates and verbose constructions, is a little boat on a peaceful pond I can row on, a moment out of time in which I can stay very still and ponder everything as it all happens around me. It is silly to deny myself a promenade, especially under the current circumstances.
Then friends, here’s to digressing, to writing about puddles and piddles and to never finding out what “the proof’s in the pudding” means, for it would ruin pudding once and for all.
PLUTO 
4 Responses to “More Often”
Cheers, I’ll drink to the power of digression and writing as if taking a stroll. The academic brain can turn off for a while and let others do the analyzing and the finding of the dots to connect.
Now do I Google “the proof is in the pudding” or do I preserve myself?
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I say go for it, but be warned – I remember it being somewhat underwhelming
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Beautiful and bright 🔥
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Thank you Aleesha, I appreciate it!
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