Over this last month, I’ve hardly crafted, designed or made. I’ve hardly read or written. So, what have I done? I’ve thought. A lot. I’ve made notes, jotted things down, doodled and scribbled, trying to make sense of what it is that’s stopped my creativity in its tracks.
It’s not that I don’t want to be creative… How I feel at the moment is somewhere between not knowing how to be creative and, perhaps more importantly, why to be creative. There doesn’t seem to be any benefit to either myself or others in my…Engaging in a(ny) creative practice at the moment. I investigate the ideas I have online, and find them already made real by others with more experience and more expertise than I could hope to accumulate in another lifetime. It doesn’t make me sad, low or down – more somewhere between apathetic and indifferent, a place I’ve started to consider more dangerous.
In addition, my collaborative endeavours are more administrative than artistic or artisanal these days, and I find that I am increasingly happy to direct my efforts in this area – and increasingly unhappy that this is somehow easier and more fruitful than picking up my hooks, needles, pencils, pens and paints. My to-do lists and spreadsheets flourish as my notebooks and sketchbooks languish, my efforts focused on the creative and entrepreneurial successes of others. Don’t get me wrong – I neither begrudge nor regret this, as the success to which I (hope I) contribute brings its own rewards and satisfaction, but… I don’t know. I’m left feeling as though there’s something missing, but I don’t know what this is nor where to start looking for it.
Heh – perhaps this is the more generic form of writer’s block. I recall the tortured artist, tormented by their inability to conceptualise, to create, to produce, to make their art and their craft. I wish I could be so melodramatic; somehow, to perform this absence of creativity somehow. Perhaps, if I were able to ‘properly’ manifest thoughts and emotions into actions, all of this wouldn’t feel so… Wasted. But, I simply don’t feel that way. It’s too melancholic, too self-indulgent.
So, somehow, as I have done the last few months, I’ll just ‘get on with it’, and see where that takes me. Hopefully, as well as closer to being able to be the creative person I want to be, this is somewhere warm and cosy, and with soups and hot chocolates, now the nights are getting longer.