It is one I believe I share with writers both living and dead…the fear of the dark, living place where creativity and art come from.
Howard Phillips Lovecraft. Emily Dickinson. P. B. Shelley. Byron. Hemingway.
IDK. I’m guessing.
Some of us turn the fear into challenge into productivity. And I admire that. But, I have issues with spending long periods of time in what I call the creative well.
For instance, sometimes, poetry, real poetry that uses the craft and the art to raze, illuminate harshly, and pull out humanness by its pale, quivering roots, digs too deep for me, hits all my raw places, mixes the sensory responses to overload, like a pot of milk, boiling on the stove…boiling over…a mess…hard to clean up.
It is a phobia, this, you might be thinking. But, I don’t know. I think it is more akin to self-preservation. I live on and…
View original post 389 more words