On creativity and old dreams

A cute puppy just for you...

I've been going through the writing I did at the end of last year as writing exercises. The exercise was to wake up early and write for half an hour. I thought I'd post an extract of one of my better entries. It’s a little bit loopy - the early mornings didn't agree with me - but there are a few ideas I thought were interesting.

2/12/2013

Creativity is a strange idea. Who can tell what fathomless ideas will spring fully formed from our minds like we are giving birth to the collective’s child, or what idea we will drag kicking and screaming into the world and bully into a semblance of creativity. There are so many expressions and various turns of phrase that will allow us to reach across the gap between people and shove our ideas down their throats, but who knows which are the right ones? What do we do when we can’t express ourselves and the block is marrow-deep, with no end in sight?

I had a dream last night that I found fascinating. The elusive tendrils of my dream are fragmenting like mist in the sunlight, but I remember thinking - while I was experiencing the dream - that it would be fascinating to write about, as it was a shocking and tragic event. I also remember thinking that it was a good opportunity to remember that writing requires depth and … What’s the word. Despair? No – more like adversity. We need to deal with ideas bigger than ourselves and overcome the tragedy to come out triumphant. Every good story that I’ve gotten drawn into has been vivid and tragic. Bad things happen to the characters, and they grow stronger from the events, overcoming the adversities.

I feel that my mind is trying to help me now, with the vivid and chaotic morass of dreams in my head, but I have trouble recalling these dreams when I wake up. I aim to remember these in greater detail as I continue my project, so we will see what changes, and how I go from here. The dream this morning was enough to wake me into a panic attack, but the dream itself was not that scary. It was tragic, like a car crash might be, but I have already forgotten the details, after swearing to myself that I would remember. It was one of those dreams where you think you’re awake, and that it’s real, until you finally wake up and breathe a sigh of relief that it’s all over and that you’re still here and safe.