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.

Connections Between Art and The "Real" World

I was skipping through the rosy pink world of the blogosphere (cough) when I ran across this request on Michael Spenser's blog, internetmonk.com. The post is called Blogs I’d Like to Read (or How To Perk Up A Boring Blogosphere)

I’d like to read blogs by artists discussing the artistic process, particularly writing poetry, acting and film-making. I’d enjoy hearing about the connections between art and real life. I don’t want to read technical, insider geek info. I want to understand the moments of insight and inspiration; what draws us to create in the first place.

I fit into the poetry writing category----and, well, writing every else, as well.

One particular statement caught my eye.

I’d enjoy hearing about the connections between art and real life.

I'm not sure how to get this across, so I'll put it bluntly; art is real life. Writing is not automatic, such as breathing, but it is as "real life" as using a hammer. But, I will try to oblige with a personal anecdote as to how those worlds intersect.

Real world: I am sitting in church. I am not listening to the sermon. In fact, I am, but trying to block it out. I am more interested in the swift snowfall outside. Finally, frustrated by what I do hear, I stop pretending to take sermon notes. The poem begins.

The Art---the poem that results.

God shudders with anticipations
as he pulls on his boots.
Ready to roam, explore the old
stomping grounds. Earth, freshly
spiced with snow,
settles into winter rhythm.
He tramples through drifts up to his knees
and his hair glitters
with snow; snow softening into water beads
as he sits down by the fire and
tugs off his boots and then settles back:
satisfied, drunk on weariness, winter-wine
running through his veins.
Yes, winter, beautiful, very beautiful.
It’s lovely to be alive
while everyone is asleep, sleeping
peaceful---sleep peacefully, my loves.


Now, this poem stems from my very real frustration with distant and fuzzy pictures of God and my personal interest in the snow. In the real world, does God wear boots and trample through snow drifts? Well, I might make a case that Jesus wore boots...anyway.... The art lies in the form. The real world seems absent, but it provided the foundation for the entire poem.

I almost think that the worst poetry results from when someone sits down and decides to write a poem. Cold. Starting with no idea, other than to "write a poem." It's a good exercise, and some people use it successfully, but if you have no ideas, you'll end up writing a revved version of roses are red, violets are blue.

I'll probably address his statement further, but I am attempting to avoid longer posts...bad habit.

Signing off.