what draws us to create

what draws us to create

I really love that phrase for some reason. Now, I've ripped it totally out of context, but you can find it in context in my post Connections Between Art and The "Real" World here. Is there a way to explain to someone what draws you to your paticular art? What draws you to create anything, at all?

There's this wonderful DVD series out there, called the Life of Birds. not surprisingly, it's about birds, narrated by one of those random British gentlemen who seem to have nothing to do other than narrate documentaries. In any case, you'll soon find that the vast majority of a bird's attention is focused towards begetting baby birds. No, they don't love baby birds, they just want to make certain that their bloodline is carried on. Or DNA. Color me ignorant of what exactly those fluffy things want exactly.

In the same way that birds seem to be driven to leave their mark on the world (love the green and white ones they leave on the windshield) all people, carpenters, designers, poets don't want to think that the world will go unchanged without them.

As a writer of all forms, I find my best, most enjoyable expression lies in writing. In speaking. Words are my craft, to borrow an unspeakable cliche. A poem calls out different skills than a blog post. A letter requires other abilities---although it would not be a tragedy if someone wrote a poetic blog post, or brought the same common sense to a poem that they do to a poem.

Pleasure, then, is what calls me to create. Writing---paticularly poetry---is maddening. I don't care that I have absolutely no carpentry skills. I have no interest in carpentry. However, it can drive me to wild distraction when I'm pouring a poem onto the sacred page, it's flowing, and the end disappears. It's like yo-yoing, and then discovering that the wooden spool has rolled away. The right words do not come. And the poem withers, slowly, in your notebook.

I think, by the way, that I was born wanting to write. Even at the tender age of seven, my favorite possesion was one of those small, fat, 500 page notebooks with a swirly space cover. I eagerly filled it with poetic squiggles. Man, I just filled up 500 pages with stuff that looked like real writing! I always hate those smug author stories about how the author came from the womb with a pen clenched between their teeth----unfortunately, I fall into that category. Oh, yes, except for the published bit.

So, I suppose, it's all genetics. Or DNA. Or Fate. I'd much prefer Fate, it's more poetic.