I believe I’ve just acknowledged what drives me to create. It’s a sense of incompleteness, perhaps in me personally, perhaps in my immediate surroundings or even the greater world.
As a child, I escaped into fantasy – drawing, building with Lego, playing with miniatures (especially die-cast *dinky* cars). Then, for years, I strove to manipulate the air around me & affect the brain through music. Now I work visually with words & images.
I’ve also realized that if I’m in the middle of something & am struck by the desire to draw, then I must drop everything & draw. The sense of incompleteness in the current task is influencing me on some level.
(But it’s only with drawing, never writing. The only thing I lose if I choose to not write is that particular idea; there’s always another idea waiting. And since other writers’ notion of inspiration is that of a fickle lover, I nearly always honour literary inspiration with the necessary attention & time; I have not been doing this with pen & ink. I wonder if part of it is the sense of security I have by always drawing according to the script, & so there’s nothing to lose by waiting. Except, of course, the inspiration to SIT DOWN & draw, a small but vital difference.)
Even something as mundane as waiting for the end of a movie or getting to the end of my new email messages brings about a sense of accomplishment – completeness – that seems to bring about a sorrow that my current task is finished, a feeling of finality, a sense of loss. It consistently destroys every notion of creativity in me until I can distract myself with new brain fodder.
This is something to bring up at my next psychiatric session.