Bright red Play-Doh spaghetti stomped through the “Devil’s Sphincter” extruder toy by a five thousand pound woolly mammoth on steroids.
You ever have a story that doesn’t want to end? A story that has a defined lifespan but just like the infamous nexus model robots in Blade Runner, it wants more life than it has been given.
At this point I am just glad my story doesn’t have hands or I would surely start to worry about having its thumbs plunged deep into the brain via my eye sockets.
At first, I had been having such a hard time getting this tale started; its characters unfamiliar, locations beyond my experience, but I just knew there was a great story in there. Once it kicked over; finally roaring to life, I was exhilarated.
That was two weeks and fifty pages ago…
The ending is so close I can almost smell the green grass and hear the trumpets playing taps, yet this thing just will not stop breathing. I should be happy. Every page is confirmed content for the book.
I am not happy.
I want this story to end so I can move on to the next tale. I want that story to end quickly as well, and this was what I was afraid of when I started the whole “five page a day” system. I have built up this expectation in my mind that the creative successes I have had recently are controllable.
I have forgotten the number one rule of creativity…
It lives, breathes, and cannot be tamed.
Creativity cannot be forced to work like a machine; putting together stories, songs, paintings, and sculpture like they were a car or motorcycle on a robotic assembly line. Like fire, creativity consumes; it talks, brings life in its wake and destroys everything else that came before it in your mind.
This force cannot be told how to exist. It is our responsibility as creators to learn how to co-exist or pay the price.
Today I am paying the price.
I am burned out…
P.S. For those interested, two people voted in last week’s poll…One Hundred and Nine individual visitors last week and only two people had an opinion. Experiment failed.