A Truth Seeking Wanderer
When I was young, I had a dream of performing my music in front of a sea of people. I may have been about 12 years old. It was just me, under a spotlight, holding a guitar, a microphone was on a stand in front of me. I don’t know what song I may have been about to sing, but it felt good to be there.
It feels true to me that we write primarily for ourselves, whether it’s poetry, prose, a script for stage or screen, music or commercial copy. We are ultimately the ones to satiate and to satisfy; we will read it (repeatedly, during its creation and editing), listen to it (I call it “singing practice,” but, let’s be honest), or be subject to its repercussions (good or bad) once released into the world.
Newness is addictive to the wanderer-type. We can bounce around careers, vocations, projects, relationships, cities, countries… without taking the time to become utterly amazing at something.
Creativity thrives on an openness and innocence (or perhaps wilful ignorance), a trust in the unknown and a delightful anticipation of the unexpected. It calls for a certain level of restriction, pressure or limitation: a time constraint, a budget limit, an equipment or materials limit, inexperience, weather conditions, client preferences, Mercury or Mars in retrograde, etc.
