On creativity

My muse has been absent during the month of February. Muses are like that, disappearing when you most need them. Being creative is the hardest part of creativity. When writing I am often assailed by the thought that other writers have already plowed this ground and that my time would be better employed as either a dog catcher or sign painter. Poets, writers, philosophers have often fought the idea that they have arrived late to the dance, that other writers and thinkers have already recorded their original ideas, and that their efforts are going for nothing. My muse has always been a little cranky and cynical, as if she got up on the wrong side of the inspiration, but most of the time she has some great ideas about remodeling or menu suggestions or a new paint color for the bathroom. I would like to write about transcendental ideals that guide the human psyche to do good, to be less egotistical, to work for world peace, and to resolve the persistent human problems of hunger, violence, and isolation, but I don't get any good vibes about any of that. Being creative is hard. My muse is always bugging me about being derivative, about stealing my ideas from other writers, about not being open to new ideas. She says I'm always playing it safe with subjects, verbs, and compliments, writing complete sentences, observing the rules of proper grammar and syntax. She says I'm conventional to the core and no fun at all, a typical liberal tree-hugging granola eater who fears death and global warming, wears comfortable shoes, knows enough to come in from the rain, eats sensibly, and doesn't speed. Boring, she says. You need to learn how to juggle chainsaws. You know, you're not Picasso. Yes, I know I'm not Picasso, but then again, does the world really want or need another crabby Spaniard cubing the world into an unrecognizable mess of disassociated lines and disembodied body parts? You call that creativity? Some people do, I guess. To be a creative failure, one must sink below the creative horizon into a tired mire of overused metaphors, trite phrases, and tired symbols, and believe that the junk you write should be original, as if that last word had any real meaning at all, and that thinking for yourself is the real road to creating avant-guard trends in new film noir with a sort of neo-negative potential in epistemological endeavors. You are too sober, she says, as if I need any help in making myself look stupid. The riddle that is creativity is an insolvable conundrum enclosed in a mystery. We "get" creativity when we see it, and we know when someone is ripping on someone else's mojo, covering someone else's creativity. From the time we are taught to cut out our first circle from a square by trimming off the corners of a square, we are reminded that nothing is original, that creativity is an illusion, and that everyone has arrived late to the creative party. Perhaps creativity is more about being surprising, and less about being original, which is impossible anyway. So stop being interested in being creative, my muse coos between sips of coffee. Since there is nothing new under the sun, forget about creativity and do what you want. All circles are the same, except for size, color, texture, and imperfections, so in cutting out a circle, we re-invent the wheel and follow the yellow brick road. I just got a text message from my muse: don’t write about creativity. It’s make you maudlin and God knows you don’t need any help with that. No such thing as creativity anyway.