WriterLog 2

I Can’t Write, I Can’t Do Anything
On the Failure of the Imagination
On Being Unfruitful
On the Unfitness of the Self
On the Moral Failure of Being Untalented

The rain is falling outside and the sun is painting stars in the droplets as they fall and explode against the patio. I’m sat watching it with a cup of tea between my hands, steam rising in straight lines that meet my breath and crash into swirls that break against the cup like clouds against a mountain.

I have been writing and painting and photographing long enough to know that this is beautiful. Most creative processes are about noticing, and paying attention, and valuing what’s there, allowing it to ignite the fuel you’ve built up between the folds in your brain, creative sludge you want out. When the spark catches in the first fold it’s your job to take that flame and fan it into a roaring fire, to clear out the sludge between the folds to make room for something new.

This day the sun lit small fires in the rain droplets, which in turn glittered and lit flames in my eyes that traveled on fuses through my skull where they lit small, weak fires.

Fan the flames, I told myself, and I did, as I ought to do each time a fire is lit. That is my job as a creative. So I blow on the first fire, a book I’ve been working on, and the smoldering pile of creativity flickers and grows and then dies when I breathe in to give it more air.

I put my cup aside and run off to at least write down the idea. Writing is like analogue film; I can always develop it later.

But when I sit there, I might as well try to write a little and… that’s five hundred words. Bad words. But there are five hundred of them nonetheless. Just eleven hundred more and I’ll have reached my daily goal.

The artifacts made by the sun-drenched rain have all died now. I blew on one and it smothered. I took care of its corpse nevertheless, and let the rest disappear. Except there, there’s one that’s still glowing a little. I can paint it. And so I paint, nothing at all with colors that are dull and boring and truly unbecoming, like me. If I mixed the rainwater into the paint then perhaps I would have had something.

It’s drizzling now, so I make myself a sandwich, eat it a bit too fast, have a glass of apple juice, and put on my wool jacket. I take an umbrella, though I’ll likely not use it, then set off for a walk.

Five minutes later the rain picks up and I have to use my umbrella, feeling a little happy that I doubted myself and brought it regardless. I walk over to the forest and take the winding hike through the forest, up the steep hill, down the other side and over the dark green grain growing there. Then I loop back through the forest and make it back home.

I’m drenched in sweat and rain, my heart pumping through my chest. I walked about six kilometers, my normal route, but much faster than usual due to the thorn in my heart, in my head, the shadow standing behind me lashing me for my ineptitude and stupidity and general, bland shortcomings. So I come back home and do nothing at all while the lashings on my back paint chessboards in layers on my back and my soul. I am a wretched creature undeserving of pity and love and…

I go for another walk the next day. Then I eat some good food and think about how privileged I am to be able to eat it. I sit by the fire and try to write, but nothing comes, even when the fire is beautiful. I take the car over to a friend’s house where he offers me tea and dinner and dessert, before we sit and discuss topics of importance and subjects of no importance at all.

It’s great, really great, all of it. So I try to write some, and some words come before the well dries and I do nothing. I paint a painting and grow bored in the middle so I hurry to finish it. Then I try writing some more but it’s awfully boring. The story is great, the characters fantastic, the plot and the twists and the emotions are all there. All is there except for me.

I sit and watch the fire. It’s a cold October day and I’ve just been out to fill the bird feeders. The cold still sits under my skin, tickling my bones as the fire tries to heat it all away. I realize that all is good, which is what has turned me upside down. I don’t feel threatened at all. That should be a good thing, shouldn’t it? I’ve not been able to write, not been able to paint, despite having good ideas. I write a chunk, then wake one morning to really not wanting to write it all. I write it still and get things done while really not feeling like doing it. I go for walks and eat good lunches and sit by the fire. I listen to music and see movies and read books and meet with friends and still I really don’t feel that life-threatening urge to work on a project. They’re all just projects. None of them are the blade-edge-dances that grab onto my collar and shake me until I work. None scream at me to keep me up through the night. None twist me and pull on me until I can’t live a normal life because I cannot think about anything but that.

So I grow bored of them. Because I’ve been in love and this is not love but something else. The well of creativity is full and the well of grit and work is full, but the well of love is empty and I don’t know how to fill it. All the projects are full of love and joy and timid expectancy, and I cannot give them what they deserve, so I give them poor attempts and then nothing at all.

— Elliot