Skip to main content

The Creative Process

I've long said that I liken creativity to psychosis...and if you really think about it, it's probably not far from the truth. The creative mind sees/hears/smells/tastes things that don't exist until we create them.

As a musician, writer and photographer, I view the world with my own weird set of senses. I hear music that no one else can hear. I see images that while visible to others, are probably not perceived the way I perceive them. I have stories running through my head at all times. It can be quite a frightening mess at times! LOL But every now and then, I can get these ideas OUT of my head and transform them into something that others can (hopefully) enjoy or at least recognize.

I, for years, played in rockabilly bands almost exclusivley. During the past few years, along with some serious personal issues, I found this to be severely stifling. My photography suffered from it as did my writing and composing. I found myself becoming a caricature of myself. I did NOT enjoy this one bit! So I did the only thing I could: I backed away from all of it. I bought a new guitar and started playing different styles for my own amusement. I fought the urges to incorporate this "into the act". I turned down more shows and tours than most cats my age ever get offered. I continued to suffer through my own personal issues without my outlet for my creativity. But I perservered and dug deeper into myself and within the past year, I've been getting the old magic back. The creative process, as in decades past, was back with a vengeance!

I produced a CD for an old friend and got to approach music from all sides. I got to takes the songs and rebuild them my way. It was a truly interesting and fun process. I'd listen to the basic tracks over and over...listening for the smallest weeds of sonic ideas to grow. My girlfriend was most likely sick to death of hearing these songs, but as she's a very supportive type, she perservered...and kept to headphones close by so she could escape my noise! LOL

Around this time, I'd been writing freelance. I took whatever writing gig I could get...and let me tell you, there's some real crap writing gigs out there! But something unique happened...I took whatever assignment I was given and let the creative process take it over. I figured that I could take even the most dry assignment (writing copy for a tech school was one of the gigs I had) and make it at least SEEM interesting. I played with words. I made the mundane seem magical. I eventually lost the gig because I got a bit too wordy. LOL They wanted Jack Webb ('just the facts ma'am') not Jack Kerouac! LOL But it brought it all back to a head. I could still write!

Then I started digging deep into my musical library...I went for the most stripped down old blues records I could find. I didn't want 'bands', I wanted cats who let their souls ooze out of their pores and onto the microphone! I started delving into old Mississippi country blues and found what I was looking for. These guys didn't necessarily follow the standard blues patterns. No, they went for something more natural...more primitive, something that flowed in their blood. A lot of the music just droned on and around one chord. But it has a beauty that floored me! I started to experiment with this style...could I really find the magic trapped inside a single chord? Needless to say, I think I have. I'm not comparing myself to these legends by any stretch of the imagination...but their influence has unleashed the creative process again!!!!! AND I'm having FUN again!

I'm doing something that I haven't done in ages...I'm making plans! I'm multitasking! I'm all over the place! God...please don't just let this be a manic episode to be followed by a big crash! That's the downside of the creative process. Sometimes...there's a crash....

To be continued.....

Comments

Popular posts from this blog

An Old Photo

The photo was old and scratched up. It looked like it had been handled and mishandled for years, and it probably had. Passed from hand to hand, tucked into scrapbooks, displayed in frames, stuffed into drawers, and rescued again. It had been looked at thousands of times. It was still his favorite. It wasn't historically important. Just a photograph of friends sitting in someone's back garden, sharing a few laughs and a few cold beers. The image was every bit as grainy as the memories attached to it. The colors had faded with age, drifting toward reds and yellows. Time had left its fingerprints everywhere. He was the only one left in the photograph. When his time came, would anyone remember those old glory days? Those years when importance itself seemed unimportant. When photographs weren't taken to prove anything, advertise anything, or preserve a carefully crafted image. They were taken simply because someone thought a moment was worth keeping. There was no guarantee the p...

A Bluesy Melody and a Scratchy Photograph

Contrary to popular belief, he wasn't born in the mountains. Nor had he been raised in a cave. His appearance, though, often led people to think otherwise. A barber's chair was as likely a place for him to visit as the moon. I don't believe he had ever shaved. His hair, long and unkempt, looked even longer thanks to his seemingly endless beard, which was braided and knotted at the bottom. If unfurled, it probably would have dipped well below his waist.  His mannerisms and manner, while peculiar, were so only in that he was almost religiously polite. What at first glance might appear stand-offish was nothing more than his attempts at being inobtrusive. He was almost like some Appalachian monk, raised by a society trapped in the past, who occasionally ventured into town. He was extremely well-read and more tech savvy than most teenagers. Utmost, he maintained his privacy. No one knew just where he lived. He came and went at his own leisure, unnoticed by the world until he mad...

The American

 In his native America, he'd always had a shady reputation. As a young man, he worked as muscle for hire, worked as a bouncer in gambling houses and brothels, and always had a side hustle moving drugs or weapons. He could always be counted on to find a buyer for stolen goods, too. He was smart enough to see the cracks forming in the government long before most. Within days of the First Attack, he'd made plans to leave the country. Some of his cohorts with Sicilian lineage helped him get to Europe. From there he was on his own. He managed to bring along a tidy sum in cash and jewels. This gave him the advantage of time to form new contacts. He was told time and time again that the capital of Bulgaria - Sofia - would be a good place to set himself up. There were gangs there who could make use of his skills, and provided he kept out of trouble and his name out of the local gossip, he would do fine.  And he did. He pretty much became, as he liked to call himself, a consultant. He ...