All creative minds have those days, weeks, or even months; when creativity doesn’t strike. The white blank page stares at the writer with a menacing brow furled, cackling as it’s crumpled up and thrown away, with only a scribble of crossed out words. The blank canvas peers into the souls of painters as they mix their oil paints attempting to raise a world from its cracked surface. The animators characters dance wildly in her mind as she struggles to pose even one key frame of her shot.
What does a creative mind do when they have no creativity to use? When the tank is empty, and needs filling, where does one find this mystical fuel?
For the past few years, I had run out of creativity, you could say that I was bone dry. I can take blame for it. The reason that I can is because I blamed another for my loss of it, my emptiness, my never ending search to find a station to refill it.
I had been in a very serious, committed relationship for sometime with another creative person, who had similar interests, thoughts; and passions. Things that innovative minds like ourselves look for. Discussions of Classical literature, Renaissance art, and everything between were a norm in the beginning; and then throughout time, like everything, small changes began. These changes grew into fruits of burden instead of Love, weeds of destruction wrapped their tendrils around the relationship and pulled as hard as they could, slowly separating what once was something great. Our like mindedness, appreciation of each others dreams, dissipated; and reared their ugly heads of sadness and discontent.
In the end, the thing that ultimately ended it all was a distaste for a dream. Regardless of the back story, the dream was the nail in the proverbial coffin our relationship. I had to choose between it, and the relationship. A choice was given, a fork in the road, go left to follow your dreams, go right and be miserable. Do not collect $200 dollars, do not pass go.
I’ve been given many tough choices in my life. As a young pre-teen or “tween,” as they call it now; I had the option to live with my Grandparents, Mother, or Step Father. Two in which lived in the state I was born and raised in, and one who had moved away, across the country to an unknown life to me. I chose my Mother, and took the quest across the country. I traveled with hippies and played hackie-sack and pinball, sleeping in sleeping bags in the back of a Volvo in the mountains while coming home for family visits. But this was a choice, a fork in the road, and a very difficult one that had many consequences and results since I made it.
Just like the choice that I had to pursue my dream. I made it to follow my creativity, follow my dream, and not be told that I couldn’t do something. And, then, it was gone.
I lost it. I lost my Creativity. Every time I sat down to work on my craft, I couldn’t. I was unable to find the drive. A piece of me had been changed and disappeared when I made that decision. And the bottom of the glass became my solace. Every artist goes through their dark ages, and mine was spent drinking, seeing the last drops of a pint of Guinness in the foam at the bottom of my glass. Another one, please, barkeep.
Over time however, I’ve slowly come to realize that it’s still there. It has a small pulse, and it’s attempting to break out of its shell and be reborn. The bottom of the glass isn’t for sorrow anymore, and the emptiness of it means it is time to go. To draw, to read, to write. I started this blog as a way to let what was on my mind out, let it speak and others to hear it. And, there, I think my creativity has started to be reborn, it’s pecked the small hole in the shell for air. And that in itself, is my refill of creativity.
But one thing I remember, is that even the artist longs for love outside of the worlds in which they create.