All summer long our canna plants have vigorously grown broad leaves of light green or variegated burgundy and forest green. Now, finally, the plants have brought forth their flowers, which are bright red, but so disproportionately small that they look a little silly perched on top of those magnificent plants.
When I work on my novel, my creative process feels like the growing canna plant-in-progress – complex, broad, and expansive. I show up at the computer a little afraid of the blank page on the screen, yet something happens if I make myself sit there, even if just for a half hour. Miraculously, sometimes characters interact, plot develops, and the research I’ve been doing magically finds its way into the material. Once in awhile I’m so pleasantly surprised that I dance around the room, like Geoffrey Rush neurotic writer’s character in The Banger Sisters. Remember that scene? He’s all by himself in a hotel room; his words are flowing after a long period of writer’s block, and he’s absolutely full of joy.
But sometimes the next day, when I look at what I produced, it seems disproportionately small in comparison to the feelings of discovery I experienced the day before. Which begs the old question: do people who create like to create because of the feelings of limitless possibility that accompanies the creative process – the variegated leaves pushing toward the heavens – or because of the products we produce – those shy red flowers that don’t quite convey the heightened experience we had while creating them?
Maybe if the flowers were as large as the feelings the creator experienced while making them, it would just be too much excitement for the reader/viewer/listener to bear all at once.
It doesn’t always happen, but I sure love that rush that sometimes accompanies the creative process. Guess I’ll keep making stuff. It’s canna-tastic.
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When I work on my novel, my creative process feels like the growing canna plant-in-progress – complex, broad, and expansive. I show up at the computer a little afraid of the blank page on the screen, yet something happens if I make myself sit there, even if just for a half hour. Miraculously, sometimes characters interact, plot develops, and the research I’ve been doing magically finds its way into the material. Once in awhile I’m so pleasantly surprised that I dance around the room, like Geoffrey Rush neurotic writer’s character in The Banger Sisters. Remember that scene? He’s all by himself in a hotel room; his words are flowing after a long period of writer’s block, and he’s absolutely full of joy.
But sometimes the next day, when I look at what I produced, it seems disproportionately small in comparison to the feelings of discovery I experienced the day before. Which begs the old question: do people who create like to create because of the feelings of limitless possibility that accompanies the creative process – the variegated leaves pushing toward the heavens – or because of the products we produce – those shy red flowers that don’t quite convey the heightened experience we had while creating them?
Maybe if the flowers were as large as the feelings the creator experienced while making them, it would just be too much excitement for the reader/viewer/listener to bear all at once.
It doesn’t always happen, but I sure love that rush that sometimes accompanies the creative process. Guess I’ll keep making stuff. It’s canna-tastic.
