I was chuffed to have stumbled upon Elizabeth Gilbert’s very recent TED.com talk on “a different way to think about creative genius.” What an excellent way to differentiate oneself from one’s failure (or success in her, or others’ cases,) as a writer. Or person of other creative bent.
Gilbert's notion is to revisit the old Greek way of thinking about creative genius as being that which visits you in a gift of inspiration, rather than the pre-existing condition, or nature of the artist/writer/creator. A separate persona, iow, which is either on the ball or isn't. I’d been claiming all along that it is not really my fault that a possibly psycho directive to write was coupled with Clarence the crappy muse being assigned to my case. (Clarence borrows his name from the angel in It’s a Wonderful Life. I cannot predict whether this name-sharing foreshadows eventual “success” or is merely a dumb name for a muse.)
Still, it’s sort of reassuring, in a sanity-soothing way, to imagine that it’s no aberration if “calling” and inspiration do not coalesce in this lifetime. At least I showed up for my part. Three silly books in ten years can’t be the worst record ever. Perhaps my frustration and hiatus of the last little while have corresponded with Clarence being busy with some CE credits. Maybe they’ve helped him. I just can’t worry about that.
Fuzzy and his helper are laying down gravel out the back door, in prep for concrete, which will provide the foundation for eventual slate and brick and something other than mud to walk onto when we exit kitchen rear. So, for now at least, there are no back steps, which means that we need to discourage Freddi’s wish to fall on her face out the back door. Instead, she’s issuing urgent staccato woofs, just so everyone is fully aware that she’s got the thing under surveillance. Thanks Fredfred.
1 comment:
heehee. fredfred.
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