I’ve always wondered why I feel most creative when I’m not in any position to be able to write. For instance, why is it, when I’m doing my best June Cleaver, washing clothes, entertaining, giving Siciilan cousins lessons in English Idioms (and doing all of this with incredible skill, mind you), I’m on a sort of autopilot. I drift on the wind. As I smile and laugh and whip up a bitchin’ vegetarian 3 bean chili at the last moment, my mind balloons and floats away.
Thanks to the Barometric Pressure of Creativity (BPC), I hear entire conversations between characters. I work out tricky plot points. I figure out how to mislead the reader into thinking it was Professor Plum in the Library with the candlestick.
Then, when I no longer have a house full of Eyetalian guests, when all is calm, quiet, the pasta has been put away, and it is ripe for me to tippity-tap on my mac, the BPC that inflated my head with plot points and dialogue and red herrings, that kept me awake because my head had become the size of a hot air balloon at the Albuquerque Balloon Fiesta, suddenly dissipates.
I sit down at my trusty mac, expecting all the brilliance that kept me from my sleep to re-inflate my head into that giant balloon, but I seem to choke on all that hot air and pressure. Everything has leaked out. I’m limp, uncreative, and thinking about cleaning the toilet. That’s how bad it is.
Yes, it’s frustrating. Very annoying as well, and you know with this complete lack of creativity, I have no option now, after I Clorox my toilet bowl of course, but to watch Jane Eyre.