I start projects all the time. I do two weeks of Weight Watchers before I need cookies more than I need my health. I get ideas for books, for art projects, for world domination and they all lay dormant, frantic scrawls of the initial planning phases stuck to post-it's all over my desk.
I like shiny objects. I crave the new. The excitement. I am a person addicted to novelty.
It's why my brain shies away when I try to get serious about the "who
I'm gonna be when I grow up and finally get my shit together" question.
It's why I get depressed four months into moving somewhere spectacular--
the thought of never moving again and experiencing the excitement of a
new destination making my heart ache inexplicably. It's why I want to
move every year, change apartments and cities, change my hair style, my
clothes, my persona.
Irrational, I know.
I have children and adult stuff, and that requires routine. Dishes and
laundry and blah, blah, blah... I get so bored with all of it, I want to
scoop my own eyes out with the spoon I use to stir my monotone coffee. I
ramp my dosages of antidepressants, only to eventually feel numb to
them and overpowered by the notion that each day that passes, the spark
slips a little further away.
That's why writing is so important to me. I get to feel the excitement
of new destinations. New characters. New interactions, plots, dialogue,
relationships. I write here mostly because I hope it allows me to
understand the other things that are so necessary to my survival. I'm
not creative because I'm just some moody, entitled product of my
misguided generation; I allow my creativity to express the parts of my
soul that would otherwise lie dormant and eat me from the inside out.
Creativity saves me. It's necessary and I'm going to start treating it
with the respect it deserves. I'm way behind in NaNoWriMo and I've told
myself that it's not worth my time. Practical, mean Amy says no fun. I
started a story and I spent a few days engulfed in the thicket of plot
lines before I decided it was irresponsible and I could use that time
for better, more adultier, things. It stopped being shiny and I walked
away. I abandoned my characters, closed the laptop and resigned myself
to their sudden death.
That ends now. Tonight, I open that laptop and revive them. I will
finally, force myself to have some God damn follow through and it's
going to be amazing. Ot it's going to be utter shit, but at least I will
have convinced myself that I'm capable of passing through the novelty
and really engaging with my feelings, my environment, my art. I owe my
creative process no less than it gives me-- A chance at life.