As someone who expresses creatively in the medium of writing, I often find myself at a crossroads in terms of where to start with new material. For example, what do I write about, specifically, how do I go about writing the first post of this blog? Here in this conglomeration of words is my first open and vulnerable offering to the entities and participants of cyberspace, what do I say? Do I write some review of an Ultra-Hip Bourgeoisie Gastro-Pub? Maybe a step by step guide to building a small corner shelf?
My attitude about writing these days is similar to my attitude about food: I don’t care what it is as long as it can be digested. That is to say a few things, 1) I am attempting to write in the direction of my subconscious with some wild assumption that the product will be a more pure form of art and that 2) regardless of the result of my efforts, I am always writing for an audience, and that audience should be able to comprehend or at least be able to create their own interpretation of my work. It is said that one must write and express for themselves but I have also found that if you can’t get other people to understand or at least have an appreciation for the work you are doing, all of this art making becomes seemingly pointless, as the mounds of scribbled on pages begin to pile up in boxes and closets. I have a whole arsenal of material I will probably never show to anyone as long as I am alive, but what good is that doing me? I’m not even talking about that “good” in a monetary sense, I mean in the sense of the satisfaction of expression. It’s like having intense emotions or feelings that you bring all the way up to the back of your teeth and then leave there until someone punches a gap in your mouth and all of it spills out accidentally.
Maybe right now as I write, as we the writer and reader converse, I am speaking around the subject in which I intend to broach. I am having the most difficult time generating content, and every time I get blocked like this, it feels like a wild goose chase trying to diagnose the issue. About a week and a half ago, I was in the midst of a dangerously high fever, hitting temperatures between 102-104, with no break for four days. Now my problems with creating new work now I’d like to blame on the possible brain damage I may have suffered in the midst of such a high fever. The problem with this reasoning is, if I am wondering whether or not I have brain damage, I probably did not suffer any as a result of my temporary condition. So what else is it? I’ll go days on end and cut out all the vices, alcohol, caffeine, cigarettes, etc., in an attempt to “clear my head.” None of this in my current reality has proved to give me any relief from the creative blocks I am suffering from. Maybe that is it. I just need to keep suffering. And suffer harder. I looked back today at a collection of poetry I wrote a few months ago and, if the me then went up to the me now and handed me this work I would tell him to go commit himself, but first I would tell him that this is powerful work you’re doing. It takes a toll on the emotions and I love when I can do that with simply the word on the page.
My anxiety runs deep, it is conniving and now I find, quite silent. In the past it has been the channel through which I feel some of my best work has been produced. Whether to calm it down now or to enflame it in the name of creating more material, I don’t know. I just need to create, and it all must be capable of being digested.