Creativity requires an audience. At least the creativity we typically call art. I tried to write fiction, but nobody took the bait. It was strange. I’d write a chapter of what I called “The Story,” what I came to call “experimental fiction” or autobiographical fiction or, even, a roman a clef. I started posting stories that would eventually become chapters on Medium thinking I’d get some bites. People that knew me just drove past; I got no comments or interest and certainly no questions or criticisms. I realized that people didn’t know what to make of it.

I found out I am the boy the cries wolf. My inclination is to tease and mock, gently usually, but still, I can go too far. A comment about someone’s shirt can truly hurt someone’s feelings. Their embarrassment stops them from pushing back. But in the end, they won’t take me seriously, certainly not the vulnerability of stepping up to the microphone and signing a song, or writing a novel. Without that back and forth, the questions, the comments, creativity can’t evolve. My fiction writing is a precious thing to me, but I realize it will always be just mine, like a memory.

<– Meditations on the Measures

Day Two: Creativity as Theft –>