I keep a list on my phone of blog topics to write about so I can write when I’m uninspired– like today. These are pretty broad topics: my hometown, bureaucracy, my upcoming trip to Italy, etc., but I also have a list of metaphors or jokes I want to make on each topic. Unfortunately, I did not foresee that I would forget the relationship between the metaphor and the topic, which is why I have a list of metaphors that includes the topic “pile of wood chips” with no footnotes. I can’t ascertain what I was relating to a pile of wood chips unless it was damp, prickly, and an omen of arriving spring? It was probably a reach. The closest link I can draw in my present state is “New Orleans is like a pile of wood chips because it is humid, smelly, and liable to catch fire if left in the sunshine for too long.”
Some days I experience nearly manic productivity, and the levels of output I create, both menial and creative, are astonishing. Other days, like today, I feel uninspired to do anything. I can partially attribute this apathy to being under the weather– a week of Indian Party has left my immune system KO’d– but there’s a natural rhythm to it, too. There’s feast and there’s famine, as I think any creative person attest. Although I have always enjoyed keeping many creative outlets, I would struggle with the uncertainty of dry spells if I depended upon my creativity for my means. The only form of urgency my work currently experiences is the need to put pen to paper before I lose my train of thought, and, as such, the process is deeply enjoyable for me. The stress of being a (sometimes) barren creative would strip the natural ebb and flow of its dignity and would force me to write things that I would find mediocre.
I’m blogging, even now, when I feel like I have nothing to say and no voice to say it with, because I don’t want to grow old and lose my fire. In many ways, some would say I’ve lost it already. I used to be hungry, uncertain, unfounded, and insatiable. I craved greatness over stability–over happiness. I’ve mellowed considerably since. I want to do what I like and be good at what I do, but I no longer feel consumed by my projects and goals. In many ways, I’ve found what I once deeply disparaged: balance. There are things upon which my soul rests and I do not vilify them for existing. This is more radical than it sounds.
I was really going to try to bring this full circle, but my current philosophy on creative output and writing is not like a pile of wood chips. It’s just not; there’s no work around for it. I guess, if anything, some days you’re a majestic tree: inspiring, beloved by all, and some days you’re a– well, you get it.
anything for a joke 