Some years ago, I wrote stories all the time. And while nothing I wrote was particularly ground-breaking, looking back at it all, a lot of the stuff was really good. Add to that all the drawings I did and all the music I played… Basically, I was incredibly prolific during my high-school and early college years.
And then, productivity sort of hit a huge decline…
Part of me wants to do it all again, but I’m not even sure if that’s possible. Do I still have stories worth telling? Do I have the patience to scribble elaborate miniature drawings on blank pages? Why did I stop in the first place? Was it a conscious decision, or just “burnout”?
At the peak of my productive era, I was highly particular about the pens I used and my friends were always looking out for cool blank books for me to put my creations in. One friend even hand made a book for me once. A lot of these books are filled cover-to-cover, and the pens I used to fill them with are now bled dry. But almost an equal number of the blank books are just sitting there… pages blank and waiting—no, begging—to be filled. And I haven’t bought a pen in years, and I no longer know which ones glide most effortlessly across the fibrous page while leaving the darkest line.
I know that not having the right pen is perhaps the most stupid and weakest excuse imaginable, but until I come up with a better one, that’s the one I’ll use.
No related posts.
Creative Forces
Some years ago, I wrote stories all the time. And while nothing I wrote was particularly ground-breaking, looking back at it all, a lot of the stuff was really good. Add to that all the drawings I did and all the music I played… Basically, I was incredibly prolific during my high-school and early college years.
And then, productivity sort of hit a huge decline…
Part of me wants to do it all again, but I’m not even sure if that’s possible. Do I still have stories worth telling? Do I have the patience to scribble elaborate miniature drawings on blank pages? Why did I stop in the first place? Was it a conscious decision, or just “burnout”?
At the peak of my productive era, I was highly particular about the pens I used and my friends were always looking out for cool blank books for me to put my creations in. One friend even hand made a book for me once. A lot of these books are filled cover-to-cover, and the pens I used to fill them with are now bled dry. But almost an equal number of the blank books are just sitting there… pages blank and waiting—no, begging—to be filled. And I haven’t bought a pen in years, and I no longer know which ones glide most effortlessly across the fibrous page while leaving the darkest line.
I know that not having the right pen is perhaps the most stupid and weakest excuse imaginable, but until I come up with a better one, that’s the one I’ll use.
No related posts.