Tonight, I had an idea. A rather splendid idea for a story. I took my pen and my pad and started writing; I wrote a side of A4 and then I stopped. Again.
I have been doing this for a few months now, hitting brick walls and feeling rather foggy headed. When I say foggy headed, I am not talking of a physical ailment caused by illness; I cannot see clearly in a creative manner. I believe that this has been caused by a constant feeling of negativity that has been running through my veins. I am slowly realizing that change is something that doesn’t quite agree with me rather it makes me feel that the progress I may have made has been lost. I have become lost.
So, what does one do when they move so many times in their life, the nomad that never seems to settle in one place for too long? Do I need to take roots somewhere for me to be able to settle into my role as a full person, writer and poet? Or am I to step away and just give myself some time to settle myself in a physical and geographical manner? I really don’t have the answer. Being a nomad is all I have known since I left home back in 2001, I cannot afford to buy a house because I am part of the generation that will probably never buy. I am not looking for a career in the corporate world. I want to be free to wander in my own world and find what makes me happy. Our parents nudge us to buy and marry and have children when I can just about afford my rent, bills and the odd book every now and then – how on earth could I afford this life that they so easily built for themselves all those years ago?
The bottom line is that I believe disruption to my life and no real stability is the cause of my creative drought, it is the only explanation. The solution may be to give myself time, to heal, to read, to drink tea and enjoy the little moments where I do write an A4 side of prose.
As David Lynch says: “Negativity is the enemy of creativity” and I am ready to make friends with it so we can live together, side by side rather than it bullying me into a dark place where not a single poem can be written or better still, it packs it’s bag and goes back to where it came from.