The Creative Process, Whatever THAT Is

scribbles

 

If you are any type of artist or happen to be creative in any way, you have a process.  It might not be well-defined or obvious, and you may not even realize it, but it’s there.

Here’s the thing – nearly everyone is creative in some way.  I so envy those who can clean and organize a house in one day.  I’ll start something in one room, go into another, get distracted,  etc., etc. until the day is gone and nothing is done. I’m a Southern woman and I must admit that I could not grow a tomato or make a homemade biscuit if my life depended on it. Not for lack of trying, either.  What about people who work with numbers?  I cannot even wrap my brain around that concept. The art of small talk. Can’t do it, hate it. All of those things I just listed – art to me.

I’m a writer. I have also been dabbling in some found-object, mixed media visual art and painting.  Nevermind that I cannot draw a stick person. That’s not stopping me from trying.  After reading something I wrote last week, my husband suggested I try writing a song. Why not?  What could it hurt?

My writing process is painful and arduous and usually very time-consuming.  Writing a poem, for instance, is like chiseling a sculpture out of a block of marble.  The work starts out basically as a short story, a narrative of some sort, or in some cases, a novella.  A big  chunk of words.  At this time, I start the chiseling process – dividing into sections the parts of the story and arranging them into a coherent order.  Then, I find more concise ways to express the ideas. Weed out the ones that are redundant or unneeded, or takes the work where it doesn’t need to go. Distil those thoughts down to their essence. Sometimes I end up with a creature entirely different from my initial intention.  I love when that happens.

We have all heard those stories about songwriters waking up and jotting down a complete song in 10 minutes.  Or Stephenie Meyer’s story about writing the Twilight novels – they just came to her and poured out on the page. I’m going to have to take her word for that one. It is one of my life’s goals to never read a Twilight book or see any of the movies – nor will I ever go to Disney World. It’s personal. Just don’t, please.

Yeah, I’ve written some epic Facebook rants that just “poured out of me” and I’ve done some pretty swift typing to meet deadlines, but I am not so fortunate to have things simply fall out of my brain and onto the page. You should be grateful to me for that. Most of the time, what goes on in there is not for the faint of heart.

Here’s an example of an epic creative process. I have been volleying around a screenplay idea since I was in film school in the mid-1990s. Going on twenty years. The timing is perfect, in today’s society, for what would be my controversial independent thriller.  Why have I not completed it?  I dunno.  Maybe I’ll wake up tomorrow and it will flow.

Lately, I seem to be finding more inspiration from nature. I was finally doing some work in my backyard today. I got a great idea for a visual piece from decaying hosta leaves I found while raking out my flower beds. Laziness has its perks!  If you still have remains of last year’s plants lying around your yard,  take a look at their states of decomposition.  Today, I found more aesthetic and inspiration among the decay than in the fully grown plants.

Beauty is in the eye of the beholder, so the saying goes.

Be your own beholder.

One

1 wall

One is enough. Forever. In fact, it’s one too many. Traumatizing, it is.  More so than seeing that first crow’s foot.  Or when you realized you couldn’t just cut a few calories, work out a little and lose 10 lbs. in a week.  This one – there’s a finality to it.  And base, raw humiliation.

Most women (and probably some guys) “of a certain age” know what I’m talking about.  That one stray, discolored fiber on the carpet. That tiny little spot on the rug.  More than likely, very few people will even have the opportunity to see it, let alone notice it.  But you know it’s there.  Down there.  Like a big, giant gray neon sign flashing “You’re old!  You’re old!”

Next you’re faced with the dilemma – what do I DO with this invader?  Pluck? Dye?  Ignore? Accept?  Dispense with the whole business? (Ouch)  Watch the Sex in the City episode where it happens to Samantha so you don’t feel like such an elderly freak?  (Season 6. Episode 12, for future reference.)

Or flaunt the fact that you have no filter and write about it in hopes that others will commiserate with you.

Or write an ode to it:

O Bastard wire 

You are the most loathsome

Because you are solitary

You are the harbinger

And I curse you to Hades

You’ve heard the saying “Getting old is not for pussies.” ?   Sorry to be the bearer of bad news, but horrifyingly enough, it is.

Me, My Thoughts Are Flower Strewn

After years of having no particular focus, I have decided that The Middle-Aged Ingenue blog site’s main concentration should be my first love – entertainment. Film, television, books, music. I’m reposting this as an example, a transitional piece. I wrote this in 2014.

How a 22-year-old song caught me off guard and catapulted me into the existential ether.

Two pieces of art that best represent my tumultuous transition from youth to adulthood are Toad The Wet Sprocket’s achingly beautiful Dulcinea and R.E.M.’s masterwork Automatic For The People.  I lived and breathed those albums in the early 1990s.  Both became a part of my consciousness, of my very being.  They imbued my brain cells, my heart, my essence, and reside in my soul to this day.  These albums told my story. They spoke to, confronted, and comforted me during a time when my life was in a difficult but necessary period of uncertainty and upheaval.

Automatic For The People is not merely an album but a song cycle about youth, nostalgia, loneliness, joy, unfulfilled promise, and acceptance.  So profound are Stipes’ lyrics that they have been compared to the works of John Keats.  Haunting and painfully beautiful.  Soulful and intuitive.  Ultimately hopeful.

I heard a snippet of Find the River on a film soundtrack the other night. I hadn’t heard the song in years. It completely knocked me into a fugue state – set me adrift in the existential ether.  I became obsessed, as I sometimes do with music – with the lyrics, the musical structure, and the mystery of how the coalescence of those elements creates such beauty. I played the song over and over.  I sang along, admittedly through tears.  I analyzed the lyrics.  But this time, from a distance of over 20 years.  I became reacquainted with that anxious, aimless, confused girl.  She is indwelt in me.

She is still trying to find the river.

When Find The River was first written, it was said that Michael Stipe wrote the lyrics as an ode to River Phoenix. Scholars have compared the lyrics to To Autumn The Phoenix story may or may not be true, but that doesn’t really matter.  As with any sublime work of art,  it transcends simple interpretation.  Experiencing the song as a woman who possesses a little more of the maturity, enlightenment, and wisdom that comes with age,  it touches my psyche on a more intricate level now.  A level of discernment. A spiritual place.

The lyrics are poetry, yes, and ambiguous in a resplendent way. Find The River captures the sense memory of youth;  the beauty and tragedy of experience.  The pain of loss.  The joy of fulfillment.  The complexity and unpredictability of life and the eventual acquiescence that comes with having no choice but to move forward.  Lesson learned and lessons taught.   Disappointment, promise, and hope.  A completed cycle.  A full circle with light years to go.

All of this is coming your way.

I hope it touches your heart as well.

 
Hey now, little speedy head
The read on the speed meter says
You have to go to task in the city
Where people drown and people serve
Don’t be shy, your just deserve
Is only just light years to go
Me, my thoughts are flower strewn
Ocean storm, bayberry moon
I have got to leave to find my way
Watch the road and memorize
This life that passed before my eyes
Nothing is going my way
The ocean is the river’s goal
A need to leave the water knows
We’re closer now than light years to go
I have got to find the river
Bergamot and vetiver
Run through my head and fall away
Leave the road and memorize
This life that passed before my eyes
Nothing is going my way
There’s no one left to take the lead
But I tell you and you can see
We’re closer now than light years to go
 
Pick up here and chase the ride
The river empties to the tide
Fall into the ocean
The river to the ocean goes
A fortune for the undertow
None of this is going my way
There is nothing left to throw
Of ginger, lemon, indigo
Coriander stem and rose of hay
Strength and courage overrides
The privileged and weary eyes
Of river poet search naiveté
Pick up here and chase the ride
The river empties to the tide
All of this is coming your way

sunset