I get fidgety about being creative. See, I’m a writer, by nature. Not by trade, but then that’s my own little piece of the “cross” to bear, as it were.
In my head there are stories of heroism and lust, history, passion, gadgets, and adventure. Plays and movies and novels and short stories all swimming around vying for my attention. None of them get any.
Writers, see, are kind of crazy. We have this impression that the things we have to say are valuable to folks other than ourselves. That is to say we believe that the stories in our head — no matter how absurd — have value outside the confines of our skulls. With me, though, there’s this meta-person keeping a tight reign on that insanity. Tight enough to matter, anyhow.
It’s true that by nature I’m a writer. It’s also true that I put a limiter on the amount of insanity I will let myself experience. In other words, I don’t let myself go where writers need to go, so I falter. Fail at putting my ideas down or really working on them at all. So this is how I live.
A hundred ideas for stories, a thousand plot twists and turns, millions of people living in the world between my ears. There they’ve been for 31 years, and there they’ll stay until I learn to let go. To be a little more crazy. To truly let myself believe that those stories, plots, and people are worth sharing.