I stared at the screen, but nothing worked. No matter what way 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. An uncomfortable throbbing in me always came when the person in my head stopped talking. Perhaps that person was my thoughts, but I liked to think of the person 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 TV or so when she’d talk over my show.
“Hey Robin! Wouldn’t it be cool if the main character believed everyone was being brainwashed and the MC was trying to save them? But he realized he was the one being brainwashed all along about five pages from the end?”
I’d nod along. Sometimes, if the idea was great enough, I pulled out my phone or got a piece of paper to write the idea down. All the ideas eventually 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. Turns out the villains accidentally gave them powers that made each one into one of the seven deadly sins. A few of them escaped and they went back to stop the villains before the villains experimented on other 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 sometimes because her break was longer than the respectful meal breaks I gave her. 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 was 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 my writing.
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 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.
So when you’re PCI leaves, don’t freak out. She’ll always come back and you’ll create again. But for now, enjoy the small break.