Creativity, Industrialized

A hungry writer must shake empty coffers to make imagination dance. This delirious function is expected to perform on command, at-the-ready to seduce into its screens of illusion. It is not expected to require preparation for this feat; the simple fact that we require must suffice.

A writer's creative mind is not allowed to be dull or repetitious. Marvels must spin from a hidden centrifuge & we patiently record the details which spray across an inner screen. We demand imagination suspend both time & circumstance, all to lend the grist for our daily bread. It works with no service or maintenance; it is never allowed time-off from its tremendous workload.

When I am writing from the deep, working hard to weave some part of a fascinating narrative, the demands chucked at imagination are many. I will have this aspect & I wish to tie it with that function —hurriedly so that concentration sustains.  Sometimes this is a hallelujah pass & I expect something flashy. I want the creative mind not only to form a cohesive union between disparaging data but to do it with a lead to follow.

Time & again I pull the lever of that fantastic slot machine & time after time the mind serves-up coherence. It does not matter that I can be finicky & reject what has been sent, holding-out for something more clever or comprehensive to the complexity possible. Occasionally, it will shoot up a suggestion when I am least expecting it—imagination is tireless & has an enviable work ethic.

This part of the mind does the difficult work, the stuff which requires savvy & surprise. Without this loom of coherence, writing is nothing more than a laundry list of fascinating bits; a junk drawer stuffed to capacity with baubles.

{Artwork by Wassily Kandinsky / Promo: mortontolboll.blogspot.com}