My writing is stunted, stifled, limited. It falls short of what it could be, not because I think too much, but because I stray too much. I’m undisciplined. I’m all over the place. I’m reckless, not with my words, but with what I execute my ideas – they’re often careless, and frantic, and hurried. And that’s a shame.
Creativity should be frustrating, and daunting, and demoralizing. It should challenge us to grow. It must be a constant process of running into a brick wall, over and over again, hoping, at some point, to break through.
We can only hope to inspire in the same way we’ve been inspired. It can be a painful and time-consuming process, but what I live for.
Without that drive, when I write, to fine-tune my song, why excavate in the first place? Far too often, I find myself drudging up a whole lot of junk that no one cares to know about, losing sight of the real diamond in the rough concepts I want so desperately to discover.
I know it’s all been done before. Artists of across the ages have written about loving and living and hunger and pain. But that’s the beauty of it; that’s the trick – to find out niche within this vast tapestry of the human experience; to figure out who we are, and how we’ll leave our mark. Which path can we take people down? Which touch point can we provide, to help them on their journeys?
I hear great poetry in a simple NPR report and am humbled. How beautiful our words can be, when we take the time to get to know them. How lovely our cadences can be; how our brilliant our phrasing – we have only to suspend our skepticism for a short while, and believe in the value of what we have to say. When we push our thinking to the next level, and nurture our ideas, who knows what we’re capable of growing?