Asked why writers were often troubled souls, [neuroscientist Dr. Matthew Lieberman] said that the writing itself may be a reaction to severe emotional problems.
"I am sure that it is one of their motivators to write," he said. "You have to ask yourself what they would be like without the writing.
Well, I know that I certainly feel like crap when I'm not doing it, but there's always the question of whether I feel like crap because I'm not writing, or whether I'm not writing because I feel like crap. Sure, I may become a deity when crafting my tales, but it's a peculiar sort of god who risks descending into neurosis and curtains-drawn depression if he stops creating, isn't it? Did YHWH go on a pill-popping, vodka-snorting bender after he rested on the seventh day? Hell no. He was up bright and early Monday morning creating mankind, planting the garden of paradise, and growing a shitload of trees.
Over the past several days, I've been very aware of output. That is, of all the activities that result from energy and intention flowing from me and out into the world. This includes creative output, but also all of the other things that require focus on something or someone outside of myself. And once I thought about all that was going out, I naturally starting thinking about what was coming in, which includes any sort of energy and intention flowing into me, or simply being focused upon by someone else.
I realized that I haven't had much in the way of input recently, and this may account, somewhat, for my lack of output. Which is not to say that I haven't been putting out--hurrrr--but I haven't been creating as much as I've wanted to. I recorded some vocals yesterday, on a tune that's been bouncing around since late 2007, but I had been intending to start work on a whole new thing, and never quite mustered up the juice to create that new project file in Digital Performer.
This, in turn, brings to mind the volumes of research about the highly social nature of humans and other primates, and how social deprivation turns baby rhesus monkeys into head-rocking basket cases. I haven't been huddled up in a ball in the corner keening and hitting myself in the head with clenched fists, not at all. But I'm very aware that I've got to do something to keep the mental battery packs charged up, whether that's reluctantly consenting to associate with my fellow primates or just leaving the frakking apartment to go look at the goddamn ocean being all blue and wobbly and soothing. Hell, I've got mountains here too, I could drive up one of them and pretend to be master of creation, or at least the portion of it where Oprah lives.
Old habits die hard, and I've observed that creating new ones is, for me, a stop-and-go process. I'll have a swinging few weeks in my new routine, and then I'll get knocked off of it for one reason or another, and it's terribly easy to slide back into the well-worn grooves of prior habits.
Bloody annoying, if you ask me. I blame neural plasticity, and the tastiness of cheese.
Later...
As of 3:28 AM, 528 shiny new words on the monkey story. Broke the deadlock with:
"Did you catch that bit about 'defiling our women?'" the pen wanted to know. "What do you suppose that was about?"
So, take that, creative malaise. I crush you!
