The act of creating something is rarely considered a “miracle”. Most times it’s a responsibility, which is, in many cases, a burden to the able-but-weary. Sometimes it’s a luxury: a manifestation of privilege and wealth. To create necessitates the existence of resources to create from and with, whether that comes in materials or skills. Creating or producing implies power and economics, among other things.
Yet rarely a miracle.
When I was reading the latter part of Stephen King’s part-memoir part-writing-guide work, I had felt physically uneasy. He wrote about his accident so well that I wanted to skip the part out of fright, wondering if it was just an extra. An unnecessary bit to the reader only there for the writing-guide part. When I finished the whole book, however, it quickly became my favourite, the part most helpful. The horror of a near-death experience makes it undeniably memorable, but more importantly, the conclusion strangely resonated with me.
There was no miraculous breakthrough that afternoon, unless it was the ordinary miracle that comes with any attempt to create something.
Stephen King, On Writing: A Memoir of the Craft
Having “gone back” to writing and the arts after some time of disorientation have been a gentle rollercoaster so far. Most times it’s an exciting upwards movement with the cool wind giving life to my flying hair and sunlit face. I have so many ideas and every time I get to work my soul wakes up. I feel alive. And happy. Definitely happy.
But I can’t deny that at times, especially when I’m not “at work” and I’m just lying down in the middle of my room in the middle of a country stricken with viruses of sorts that I think about how it’s nearing the end of the year and I’m getting old and I’m only starting anew. That I’ve missed so many years of practice, of honing whatever craft I’m trying to get at. That I have no credentials whatsoever. That I have no reason for doing this—any of these—besides that I want to and I would argue that this is what I am alive for.
The noise that says are you sure? Is it really? is getting fainter and fainter, but it’s still there. There are times still when my thoughts start echoing the worries, turning the noise into a whisper, then screams. Sometimes it happens at random. Like today: I was eating fruits and reading short stories for an afternoon break after working on a project. I started feeling anxious while taking a breather.
And yet there’s this: an attempt to create something. Another attempt.
The past week has been filled with many more of that sort. And I dare say they were miraculous, even if only to injuries that are unseen.
I’ve been enjoying this digital film-style app called Huji Cam a lot recently. It takes care of the vibe so I only have to remember to capture the moment and to compose. It helps make the “ordinary” moments feel a little more special.
Last week I spent a meditative hour-ish painting on a couple of works-in-progress. The session was done on a whim: earlier that day I found my lab gowns from when I was going for a completely different field (which wasn’t so long ago, I just realized) and thought of a new use for them.
Besides writing more often now, I’ve now been sketching daily, too. I had thought of drawing as something I just have no interest in (“I’d rather paint”), but my thoughts on that have changed. Hence, at the moment, I’m focusing on learning to draw portraits. I’m getting to the point where it’s becoming increasingly frustrating to not see much progress, but I’ll carry on with hope. Lots of it (to balance the intensity of the frustration).
Yesterday, I finally started on the puzzle I had bought in December last year. It was a little pricey so I had been careful with it, never opening the box (with the plastic still on) until I could finally work on it. That’s another work-in-progress I have no idea when I’ll finish.
But hey, at least I’ve started.
Hahahaha.