I stared at the screen, but nothing worked. No matter how the words formed on the page, it was all wrong. Nothing– No. That’s wrong. Let’s start over again.
I stared at the screen, but nothing worked. No matter what way the words formed on the page, it was all wrong. Nothing–
The air around me was quiet. The inspiration – the little voice inside my head – was quiet too. When it was gone, an uncomfortable throb pulsed through me. Perhaps that voice was my thoughts, but I like to think of it as my Personal Creative Inspiration (or PCI for short).
My PCI and I usually got along fine. We had a sweet beneficial relationship. I’d be sitting down, watching a show or so when she’d talk over it.
“Hey Robin! Wouldn’t it be cool if the main character saw everyone brainwashed and the MC was trying to save them? But he realized he was the one brainwashed all along about five pages from the end?”
I’d nod along. Sometimes, if the idea was great enough, I’d pull out my phone or got a piece of paper and write the idea down. Those ideas all ended up in the same journal squished away in my closet, waiting for the day I write something new.
She almost never stopped though.
“Hey Robin! Think about this:
So what if the “heroes” failed. Like downright died, right? No. Wait! Stay with me.
So, the heroes died and the villains were messing with these kids, right? Seven of them. But the villains gave them powers that made each one into one of the seven deadly sins on accident. Some escaped, but they went back to stop the villains before they experimented on more people. But their sins also got in the way all the time. What about that idea?”
She was great when she was here. But she disappeared sometimes. I didn’t know where she went because she never said. With her gone, a piece of me was missing.
Some people could tell when my PCI was gone. They’d say my mood dropped and I got cranky. Some even asked if I was on my period. But none of those were ever the case.
With the lack of my inner creativity, writing got difficult. I had tried to write without my PCI before, but the words never flowed right. All those stories belonged and stayed in file 13 (aka the trashcan). Nothing good ever came from forcing myself to write.
Over the years, I learned that when my PCI took a break, so should I. I’d go to a friend’s house and play some video games. I’d watch a movie with my mom. Perhaps I’d crawl on the floor and play tug-of-war with my dogs. But I wouldn’t write. I wouldn’t create.
Being creative, as much fun as it was, did have its limits. Sometimes I had to recharge to let everything flow out easier later on. Then, my PCI comes back.