emotionally and creatively constipated

Recently I had a conversation with someone about the connection between emo-ness and creativity.  We were talking about our pasts, our creative outlets, writing blogs, etc…when it occurred to me that I felt more creative when I had raw emotions driving me.  I told my friend that sometimes I wish I were still emo so that I could still produce emotionally jam-packed poetry like I used to in high school.  All that anger, hurt, sadness, frustration, hopelessness….let out in poetic, cathartic form.  Some of my best works were made when I was driven by the strongest emotions.

These past four or five years, I’ve felt emotionally and creatively constipated, for lack of better imagery.  It’s like I want to and try to be creative…but there hasn’t really been anything that’s gotten my creative juices flowing.  I suppose I can’t complain too much–it means I’ve been pretty happy without any major depressing or rage-inducing moments.  I should be thankful that in these last few years I’ve become happy and joyful (in the Lord, amen!).  But still, I found myself wishing for something to motivate the pen in my hand to write words to express things that single English words or phrases can’t contain.

But last night, I found myself in a strange situation.  I was lying in bed, ready to sleep, when words and memories and emotions started jumbling around in my head.  This used to happen to me a lot in high school, and I couldn’t go to sleep until I got it all out on paper.  I would jumble words around in my head, matching my emotions to words, words to lines, lines to meter and rhythm and rhyme.  Once I completed a stanza in my head, I would quickly scribble it out on a notepad in the half-darkness.  Then I would lay my head back down, close my eyes, and work on the next stanza.  I would leave a pad of paper, or a notebook, and pen/pencil by my pillow or on the bedstand, and reach for them when I had a thought, a line, or a stanza to jot down.

That was sort of what I was doing last night.  Those words, those thoughts and memories were something that’s been lingering in the back of my head for some time now.  Part of me was excited, to think that my old “creativity” was coming back to me, and I was eager to write down the words that formed and flowed out of my mind.  But part of me was afraid.  Afraid to let out the beast, so to speak.  I wasn’t sure if I was ready, or even willing, to release this hovering ghost that has long been haunting my mind.  There was too much connected to it, too much to think about, to admit, too much to face.  It’s almost like facing my demons, or facing my fears.

In the end, I only got out two or three stanzas.  But I have the basic idea for the entire poem in my head.  It’s a matter of if and when I want to finish it.

I guess we’ll see how this all turns out.

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