I’m having a bit of a “Hell’s bottoms, I can’t write” sort of week. I suspect it’s a result of doing more editing than writing lately, but every sentence I type has me staring at it in mild horror, wondering if it actually makes any sense. I’m beginning to wonder if I can’t tell anymore.
I’m a big believer in the idea that the creative process has to be a reasonably relaxed one. You have to let ideas and connections come forth without overanalyzing them too much, or worrying what other people will think if they were to see them. That’s why I like to have a number of notebooks that are special and secret, so that notes like “hairy eyeball cats?!!” are carefully hidden from view.
Once I start to overanalyze, the ability to make things seizes up. I had this problem in a huge way at art college, where every tiny thing you do, from a brief sketch to a completed final piece, is pored over by tutors and fellow students, and you are asked to explain, over and over again, what you meant by this, what you meant by that. In the end I found it incredibly hard to get any project to the stage I wanted, because I was continually second guessing myself.
This sucks the big one.
I’m not like that with writing. At least, I hope I’m not. I just have these weird days where the words are playing silly buggers and I don’t know the rules.