Certainly, stories and the inspired will leave me one day – it is inevitable. But the mortality of creativity takes me no closer to capital-‘m’ Making, and for that, I am bitter. So scowl I will, I insist.
Moving beyond the ego is necessary for careless but attentive creation but this is terribly difficult. So I must remember: Stories and other charming, wondrous things are not mine; they just happened to, on a whim, come out from me while I work away so we owe each other nothing. It doesn’t need to be grand or meaningful, and nor I burdened and solemn. I need to be light, and it, a delight. I choose to feel decidedly glad about making by curtsying at it before giddily chasing after other bright and alluring things.
Perhaps the way forward is towards words and ideas. An awareness of them colors my day, noticeably deepening my engagement and adding richness, fluidity and soft chuckles to otherwise unspectacular activities.
Yes. Language and ideas: I will seek them out because I deserve delight.