The Death of Creativity - Writers Forum

thechair · 04-01-2006, 11:46 PM

Sometimes there are experiences in life, something that affects you in such a way that, as a writer, you have to write about. These past few days there have been things that needed to be written out. I wanted to write a piece that could collapse the dam in my mind and my heart holding all these emotions back. Something, anything, a piece of poetry, prose, an aphorism, a fucking book; I don’t care, this needs to find a way out. I don’t know how to deal with this; I can’t deal with this. My grandpa died last night.

I sat outside this morning, thinking of what happened last night, connecting them with ideas for metaphors, imageries; somehow I needed to jot these things down. “I don’t want to write a boring narrative, anyone can do that” I think to myself. “Any one can take what they saw and just put it into a mesh of pretty words”. I felt that the death of my grandpa deserved a bit more. A short story perhaps, employing the most thoughtful images and metaphors that I could conjure up. But all I could think about was what I saw the past few days, the images that are burned so deep into my memory that I cannot change them. How I could feel every single bone in his body through wrinkly skin that used to be filled with pride and wisdom. With each breath he took I could feel the waves of fluid in his lungs crushing the life out of him. Seeing the decline of a man in a small stuffy hospital room and trying to stay as far away from the emotional throes of death as possible, as any moment of weakness on my part could unravel me. Bouquets of flowers adorning each room and they are all dying, a clichéd metaphor that seems all too real at a time like this. “Somebody needs to get these fucking flowers out of here,” I think to myself while nervously listening to the beeping of his heart monitor, wondering what I will do if he flat lines.

It was then that I realized, in-between drags from my morning cigarette that these images cannot be changed, and will not be changed, no matter how articulately I decide to write this piece. The memories of my grandpa’s last days have been chained off and I cannot touch them. They are what they are, and turning my grandpa’s death into a two page piece of shit amateur story only cheapens my memories of him. Isn’t the memory of me holding his hand, careful not to ruin the placement of the tubes pumping life into him as he speaks to me, his voice wavering in the damp breeze; but me not able to make out a single word he says enough? What more do you want? I cannot weave this into a more emotive tale than it already is.

Maybe I’m just a poor writer, maybe my mind is too weak, but I can’t write this; I just don’t know how. All I can see is his eyes that used to be as white as the skin of a geisha, turning a parasitic yellow that gnaws its way through all of us gathered around him. In these times, none of us are family; we are all strangers trying to remember who we are. That mustached man I’ve grown to fear is not my father. That woman holding back tears is not my mother. We are all merely human at this point. Grandpa’s body is covered in bruises from the daily blood transfusions that keep him alive. His voice is shaky and his eyes are like a collapsed dam as he tries to say something profound while he can still speak. We’re all sober, with a million thoughts running through our heads but we don’t recognize a single one. We try to hide our grief while in his room surrounded by noisy machinery, trying to think of excuses to leave the room so we can go sit in the bathroom stall to cry. We’re running out of excuses, and I stare at the ground trying to close myself off.

I keep trying to think of a way to be creative, but creativity does not flow through these passages. There is no poetic way to tell you that my grandpa died last night, or that I couldn’t be there with him when he died because I was outside propped up against a wall taking drags out of a cigarette whenever I could gather the strength the stop crying like a bitch. There is no clever imagery to make this sound better or flow easier, and if there is; it’s meaningless. A man realizing that he is going to die soon, seeing him mumbling wide-eyed prayers to the ceiling is too much for me to mend into something an audience would like to read. It is the most depressing thing I have ever seen. I am not a writer, because a writer can take something as blackened as this and turn it into an array of beautiful hues. I don’t want this to be a beautiful portrait, because that is not how I remember it to be. This will always be a moment of regret for me, how I should’ve spent more time with him, how I should’ve said something more. I can’t paint this portrait because I can’t even understand this, I can’t deal with this.

I had a million things to say but I could not form them into a sentence. I have to see my mother come out of the hospital and share a silence with her because she couldn’t utter the words “he’s passed”, and even though I knew that he did, there was not a word I could say to her. I have to see my father leave for fifteen minutes at a time and come back with red eyes, because my father and I have never established a relationship, and even in times like these, we have nothing to say to each other.

I am not a writer; a writer would make these dysfunctions worth his time. I am merely a young man who has failed in establishing anything meaningful within his own family, and my grandpa’s death opened my eyes to that. I wish I could paint you a beautiful portrait for these times of grief, but I just can’t. I don’t know how. I am merely just a human. We’re all only human.

Juliett · 04-02-2006, 03:17 AM

What a powerful picture of the end of life and the grief that follows it.

Sparx · 04-02-2006, 03:53 AM

Indeed, this is a very powerful picture about the grief and sorrow of the passing of loved one. The emotion is raw and the imagery is strong despite the narrator of the piece saying he can't use imagery to describe his/her dying grandpa. They are a few mistakes here and there but I think this was a piece written more for you more than anyone else. Great, short piece and I’m sorry about your grandpa. Keep writing.

RussellN · 04-02-2006, 06:51 AM

I had trouble reading this for the tears welling in my eyes. You may say you can't write it, but you have done so very powerfully - I feel as though I was sharing that cigarette. Sorry about your grandpa.

SevenWritez · 03-11-2008, 12:56 AM

As you can see from the date, this is an old piece. I was bored, rummaging through old pages (landed on 100 or 101 by a random click of the mouse), and found this little gem. I think some of us later-joined members deserve to see this, so I'm bumping it back to the front page. Excellent writing.

Truth-Teller · 03-11-2008, 01:55 AM

Okay.

So where's your story?

Too much superfluous exposition.

Tiamat10 · 03-11-2008, 02:11 AM

Who cares about the story? If this didn't touch something in you, you have a heart of stone, my friend. My eyes started to tear up as I read this. It's excellent.

Truth-Teller · 03-11-2008, 02:36 AM

Excellent? Woman--what are you smoking?

He is admitting to be a poor writer.

He is admitting that he can't describe the feeling he once shared with his grandfather and things he represent. A true writer is able to convey emotions. A true writer learns how to describe them. A true writer doesn't tell us, he shows us the pain, the hurt, the scorching regret. Instead this poster admits defeat.

It's pathetic, if you ask me.

Truth-Teller · 03-11-2008, 02:46 AM

Quote:

Originally Posted by thechair

The memories of my grandpa’s last days have been chained off and I cannot touch them.

Quote:

Originally Posted by thechair

Maybe I’m just a poor writer, maybe my mind is too weak, but I can’t write this; I just don’t know how.

I keep trying to think of a way to be creative, but creativity does not flow through these passages.

This is why you should not write about things that has deeply affected you recently, and has only brought burden and distress. Instead give a day or two (hell, even months) to learn to distant yourself from your subject--get over it--and then come back with hell and fury in describing all the pains and emotion you felt during that time.

Tiamat10 · 03-11-2008, 02:54 AM

Quote:

Originally Posted by Truth-Teller

Excellent? Woman--what are you smoking?

He is admitting to be a poor writer.

He is admitting that he can't describe the feeling he once shared with his grandfather and things he represent. A true writer is able to convey emotions. A true writer learns how to describe them. A true writer doesn't tell us, he shows us the pain, the hurt, the scorching regret. Instead this poster admits defeat.

It's pathetic, if you ask me.

Heart. Of. Stone.

Did you miss the whole point? He says he's a poor writer/can't convey his feelings/can't show the events and yet he does just that. When you lose someone dear to you, you simply cannot write something that you feel does them justice. Like, ever. Just because he SAYS it's crap, doesn't mean it IS crap.

Except to you, of course, but you're you, and you're just... out there. I admit, it doesn't read like a story, but that's this piece's greatest strength IMO.

Ah well, you think it's crap, I think it's brilliant. Just goes to show the vastness of differing opinions in the writing world.

Truth-Teller · 03-11-2008, 02:56 AM

Quote:

Originally Posted by Tiamat10

Heart. Of. Stone.

Did you miss the whole point? He says he's a poor writer/can't convey his feelings/can't show the events and yet he does just that. When you lose someone dear to you, you simply cannot write something that you feel does them justice. Like, ever.

Hence, my previous post.

Quote:

Originally Posted by Tiamat10

Just because he SAYS it's crap, doesn't mean it IS crap.

Never said it was crap.

Tiamat10 · 03-11-2008, 03:01 AM

Quote:

Originally Posted by Truth-Teller

Never said it was crap.

Nope, you just said pathetic. I stand corrected.

And about your previous previous post, I disagree with that too. Well, sorta. I think it's helpful to give it a day or two before you try to write, at least if you wanna write something sensible, but sometimes the writing itself helps you to distance yourself from it. Or at least put it in a better perspective. On occasion, something good comes from it.

I just love spending my early morning arguing with you. Makes my day all the brighter.

Truth-Teller · 03-11-2008, 03:04 AM

No, you're sadly mistaken.

I called the writer pathetic, not his experience.

Pathetic for giving up.

Quote:

Originally Posted by tiamat10

Heart. Of. Stone.

How do you think I'm able to write the stories I do? Every single one is about death. Every single one of my characters die. And you don't want to know how they die. I make King look like a joke.

Tiamat10 · 03-11-2008, 03:13 AM

Quote:

Originally Posted by Truth-Teller

How do you think I'm able to write the stories I do? Every single one is about death. Every single one of my characters die. And you don't want to know how they die. I make King look like a joke.

That's just terrible. I mean, not that they all die (although maybe it is, I don't know, I haven't read anything of yours) but the fact that you make it sound like justification in having a heart of stone. Why? How then do you put emotion into your stories? How do you make us care that your characters all meet an untimely, gruesome end? Seems like an odd sort of contradiction to me. But since I haven't read your stuff, I really wouldn't know.

(About the pathetic point... evidently I can't read. Sorry.

)

Gate · 03-11-2008, 04:27 AM

Well What to say strumssss a chord deep down inside