Or an idiot. Not to my face anyway. Unremarkable in all but the most personal of acquaintances, I find myself amazed, time after time, as I slip into the fictive world and write things I don't understand, which turn out to be eerily correct. Words and passages that flow from my fingertips, shift from ink to text, and then lie there, daring me to take ownership.
Is creativity the province of memory? Is it merely a juxtaposition of the things we've learned and seen and heard, always randomly rearranging themselves in our heads, until, like tumblers in a lock they fall into place and create something?
Are we all just messengers of randomness, waiting for the alignment to set us free? Mere vessels of chance?
More and more I think so. As I create what I create, I realize that I am an idiot, a mere vessel for the randomness of creativity.
We are all savants.
We are all idiots.