These moments of creativity have the flavor and rhythm of dreams. And like dreams they fade upon inspection. So delicate to write—one foot in and the other, flying.
Breathing steadily now to keep my balance.
The ego is a man, usually. He smirks quietly and reminds with mirrors. Ignore him for a moment because he kills these dreams.
Imagination, like dreaming—letting go of the mirrors and drifting . . . catching a breeze and letting it sweep you. I create when I am dreaming, music flowing, body swaying, chills running . . . and then I say too much or push too hard and my forehead burns as the dream crumbles.
Like lucid dreaming, this creativity. I can’t be too conscious of it, can’t force it to go somewhere it won’t. That’s the ego-man at work, his mirrors pausing to ask how does this look. Impossible to dream when we’re staring at ourselves like that.
Here right now, vibrating. Sophie on the floor. Tears for her brother Coach earlier. Allowing her snore to kick the momentary block and resume my thought train.
So many times I have tried to wrap my writing around this delicate balance, the description always elusive, the chase always killing the flow, popping the bubble as I push a bit too hard and remind my dreaming muses there’s an ego here, a will here, a man behind the curtain desperate to speed things up and cut to the cure.
When he enters they all go quiet. Gone. Done.
So many times I have tried to explain how this works. But how to explain in good writing that the mirrors kill my good writing when it’s the mirrors I’m talking to?
How to explain that explaining the mirrors is impossible writing.
Those last ten words took a full forehead-burning minute to push out. I thought of Dad, his joke today about his alcoholic father. I asked if Hannah and he connected in their four-hour car ride back from the Cape, if they broke new ground, and he laughed and said “Not really! We didn’t talk about how my dad abused me or anything.”
I guess there’s more there I haven’t heard. I’ll ask him tomorrow if Poppy ever hit them. He’ll prefer the directness. It’s the only way with him sometimes. It has to be kind of harsh, almost joking. It’s how he feels comfortable—driving through the forested territory with fishing poles on the
roof instead of slowly walking through it with vulnerable bare feet. It’s not the best way but I’ll be damned if I let that stop us from going in at all.
Damned. Maybe the wrong word . . . And the ego-man is back, mirrors everywhere, reflecting masks and telling me it’s time to stop writing. Too conscious for the drift of imagination and memory; too scared of falling in front of the crowd.
I’d like to think he fades when I talk to him gently, humorously, unafraid, confident that the weather is nice enough to fly. Or when I allow myself to switch topics.
Sophie wags her tail and I imagine her with Coach, alive and dancing in dreams. She whimpers. I put my phone down, too aware for ending.