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.
5 comments:
Hu-Huh! Hu-Huh-Huh! Savants is us!
Maybe the bajillion monkeys banging away on the typewriters are in our heads, and there's just a really fine interface that only spits out what it thinks is half-way decent. Meaning, closest to uber-truth. Which, of course, is all highly personal.
Personnel? I'd like one bajillion monkey's sent up to the brain, please. Along with about 6 bajillion tons of frozen bananas, and one guy to clean up.
Man, you've GOT a bajillion monkeys up there all ready! Hell, I've been rubbing my body down with smashed green banannas and eua du monke, hoping to intice a couple of them to my cranium!
last night my dad asked me at dinner what made me decide to write the books/screenplays/stories i've written. i was like, decide? i didn't decide to write them, they decided.
- lauren
@Lauren: Here here...but that question often carries a lot of baggage...often, especially true of the horror writer, there's this uncomfortable implication under the question. It used to bother me. A lot. Until I realize we're totally out of control when it comes to the creative process.
Ahh, the age-old question: "Why do you write horror?"
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