I am seriously concerned about my recent lack of motivation in the field of creative writing. Rarely do I find myself at a loss for words, and when I am faced with a predicament such as this I can't help but wonder what existential force is powerful enough to stay my hand at the keyboard. It's not that I believe my thought process to be so overwhelmingly ingenious that it is immune to obstacles of boredom. On the contrary, someone who always has something to say is rarely a person worth listening to. It's simply that I'm always thinking, deluding myself into believing that my opinions and observations are worthy of praise. The only thing in which I truly take pride is not my powers of perception but my ability to convey what I see and think in a manner that is eloquent, spell binding and at times humorous. In short, I seek to captivate people's interest in what would be in the hands of a lesser writer a truly mundane subject.

Thus I'm terribly worried that my stymied creative flow is foreshadowing a devolution in my intellectual prowess. By all accounts I am not an attractive man, I am not physically fit in the slightest and I have the stage presence of a four year old. Ergo, I rely on what I perceive to be my one true talent, writing. Am I intelligent? I would say yes, but my grasp of world affairs, the French language and the American political system is something that could easily be taught to someone with a greater work ethic and less acidic tongue than myself. I chalk this up to constantly being surrounded by people far more motivated, dedicated and linguistically well versed than I, and consequently I feel greatly disheartened living down the hall from a girl who speaks three languages and is the founder of a multi-national charity.

Where do I turn for inspiration? Should I address the shimmering coat of snow that blankets the uneven field on campus, the dangerously poised frozen stalactites keeping guard at the windows of every house? Of course not, such imagery would be hideously cliche. I am truly at a loss. There are a million things on which I would love to give my opinion, but I have neither the credibility nor following to merit a detailed explanation as to why a combination of Keynesian economic theory and tax increases are the cure to the current fiscal crisis facing the United States. Even among the things we pass; time, gas, and judgment, I have found no witty critique blossoming in my temporal lobe.

What does a writer do to fill his empty mind? Oscar Wilde liked absinthe, Tom Wolfe his white suits. What I need is a defining characteristic that generates both recognition and mystique. I'm much more partial to bourbon, and a student budget is not conducive to purchasing suits. An ideal solution would be a complete change of venue, a trip to a foreign yet developed locale such as Barcelona or Lyon. I could make broad generalizations in concise paragraphs about cultures enriched by millenia of history, and given the widespread ignorance of young people they would hang on my every word. Montreal is nice, but it lacks that prestige that comes with flying transatlantic.

Thus, my course of action is clear. Finding the means to achieve the ends is another matter entirely, but practitioners of the arts are not to be burdened with such trifles as logic or reality. People who apply themselves to the physical and mathematical sciences are bound by the constraints of facts, and facts are so unimaginative. They may be interesting conversation pieces, or lead to breakthroughs in medicine and feats of engineering, but why bother to take the time to try and find them? Research is like an elaborate game of hide and seek, where the course is set with stringent guidelines. Writing is a process of creation where gravity doesn't matter, significant digits don't count and lobsters may have the power of judicial review.

I will concede that imagination is fueled by our perceptions of the tangible universe. It is the spark that ignites the creative flame, but consider this passage from T.S Eliot's The Wasteland.

“April is the cruelest month, breeding

Lilacs out of the dead land, mixing

Memory and desire, stirring

Dull roots with spring rain.”

 

Here we see lilacs, vivid shoots of color, new life and aesthetic pleasure arise from the unresponsive, lifeless expanse of dead earth, combining with man's most important thought processes. Lilacs are the great canons of literature, formed from a body that holds no whimsical content, facts. While facts can inspire in their own right by driving people to action, it is the human psyche that is the true source of creativity in this world.