Dear friend,
Writing is difficult. It isn’t the sentence structure, paragraphs, or grammar. These, for me at least, are rhythmic, and rhythm is something that comes naturally. A sentence often appears already formed, its meaning and rhythm entwined. It may take a minute or two to coax out the right word or phrase, but eventually it appears, musical and fully integrated with the sentence that came before. It certainly isn’t perfect. I’ll comb through what I’ve done and find things to alter, but the initial sound of it works. I don’t believe this sense of rhythm is some talent I’ve inherited either. I think we all have the gift of rhythm, it just requires a little work to develop.
Language has an inherent musicality about it. I’d actually go further and say music and rhythm are a part of us. You don’t have to learn to tap along with a beat or nod your head, for instance. Sure, some aren’t great at it; if you gave them a tambourine to tap along with they’d be off beat, but the body is inclined to move regardless, often without any conscious effort whatsoever. It’s why I believe anyone can write, sing, or play music. Most of the time development is required, a practice of some kind, but the seed was planted long ago before you or I even existed. The root is already there, it just takes practice to nourish its growth.
I’ve developed my own sense of rhythm over the years through music and writing, but what’s really difficult to manage is my energy, my creative Will and its direction. I mentioned in my announcement that I’m a creative type, which might as well be synonymous with open. The land of my mind is always open for business. Twenty four hours a day, seven days a week. But there’s only one guy there. I’ll call him Will. He’s on guard watching the fenceless borders as an idea strolls in. He heads over wondering what this thing is all about, asks a few questions. He turns around to check on the land and three other ideas are having a picnic together, a nice wicker basket on a gingham cloth and ploughman’s at hand. Cheeky bastards. Will tells the first idea to hold on a minute while he checks on the other three. By the time he gets there another idea has turned up with the first and a circus is parked in the corner.
With all these ideas it’s difficult to see where I should focus my Will. It’s true to say decision is the sword that cuts through choice, but you can’t go around swinging a sword at anything and everything. There must be purpose behind the action.
Will, as I see it, is the ultimate driving force of all life. A creative force that strives outwards and upwards. I’m not the first to think so, or the last. Henri Bergson believed evolution, and the root Will of nature, was fundamentally creative. His work on the subject won him the Nobel Prize and was widely accepted as the theory of evolution until Darwin’s more deterministic perspective took precedence.1
I do have my issues with Darwinism. My favourite argument against natural selection is a simple one: why, in the predatory wilds of Asia and Central Africa, did a Peacock select bright iridescent feathers in the fight for survival? It doesn’t have any other defence mechanism worth considering, it isn’t fast nor strong enough to escape a Burmese Tiger with a taste for Peafowl. To play devils advocate I could say that it selects its plumage for procreation, to display its beauty to attract a mating partner. But now I’ve accepted that aesthetics isn’t a subjective factor in the artists “illusory” experience (to quote some determinists and materialists), but an objective attribution of nature. If that’s the case, does nature strive for beauty? Is that a part of its Will? And what of us? Aren’t we nature itself, not just in part? Like all other animal and plant life—certainly different—but no more than any one species is to any other. Aren’t we all born from the same source, whatever that source may be?
If that’s the case then human nature is, at its root, creative. Or at least strives for beauty. But I don’t think it’s that simple. We have inherited self-awareness and critical thinking, the ability to accept or reject any given concept that enters our sphere. What we choose is a matter of focus and attention. What we focus on becomes the receptacle for our Will, like water into a tea cup. An idea fascinates us, or a work of art captures our attention, and now our Will is poured into that cup. But boy, there are a lot of tea cups, each with their own design and golden promises. It’s a battle to focus on the right cup, or even recognise the right cup. This is my problem. So far I’ve put it down to temperament. I’m the stereotypical creative type, a self-proclaimed genius but wildly scattered.
My personal solution to this scattering has been to find what I’m here for, my purpose. To find my own nature and funnel my Will into that receptacle alone. And if nature’s Will is to create beauty, like an iridescent blue-green Peacock, then somewhere in me, and you, is that same Will. We are another iteration of nature herself. If nature has a will to create, so do you.
This is the hard road: the active use of Will to focus your creative spirit.
Even if you’ve been online for just five minutes you would have noticed the plentiful supply of courses, tricks, tips, and listicles, all pushing an agenda predicated on a glaring lie, that it’s easy. Ten quick ways to do this, one easy trick to do that. Next they’ll tell me I can become Hemingway just by cutting a few unnecessary words. As if to pull a writer’s entire career down to “write simply.” No. It isn’t that easy. All those Hemingway copy-cats would have been successful if it was, but they weren’t.
You aren’t supposed to copy, to take the easy route. You’re supposed to stare at the page, head in hands while nothing comes to you. Like the sense of rhythm, creative focus takes time to develop. It’s there in the fabric of our nature, but it needs nurturing to grow. This is all part of the grand purpose to understand ourselves. The more we try, fail, and despair, the more we know it, find ways through it.
Even now I’m worried I won’t be able to keep up with one letter each week, and I’m pretty sure this will go out later than I want it to. But this isn’t my only gig. Life is busy and it’s difficult to keep up. But like everything else I’ve strived for and failed in, eventually, after getting up and trying again, I’ll get there. That’s a true reward; looking back and realising how far you’ve come.
In itself this letter has been an attempt at honest expression. I tried to be open and true. I cut a few things, moved some words around, and If I’m honest, I don’t feel I’ve been successful. Ideas kept walking on my land, pitching their tents. I wrote about them, maybe too many of them, and now the piece feels a little overwhelming as I finish up. But that’s not the point. The point is I’ve tried, attempted, walked the hard road. Now I’m done and I know myself a little more. I’m proud I took a step on the shores of creativity, my Will exercised on a meaningful outlet. I’m sure I chose the right cup.
I hope you’re well,
Talk soon,
Thomas W. Gardner.
Creative Evolution, Henri Bergson