The Process Transcendent

Your mind has drifted to that unmapped area, the area that defies definition and description.

You don't know how you got there; the path seemed quite circuitous if you can remember it at all.

No matter, you are there. And while there, words come to you easily, mysteriously.

They are perfect words capturing subtle nuances you can only dream about on your down days. They turn an emotion, light up an imagination. They are power.

There may be only a line or an entire verse, but you quickly look for something on which to write these words down because they are ephemeral, fragile, and you know that to ignore them means to lose them forever.

So you get them written on paper. Paper because getting to a computer and typing them into Word or Wordpad or whatever you use seems to technify the creative process and you need it to be free flowing for now.

You suspect there's more and once you can get it on paper the result will be a world-beater poem. An instant classic. Something that will be discussed in creative writing classrooms in high schools and colleges for decades to come. Maybe even centuries.

It's that good.

But something happens.

You are interrupted. Your schedule demands take priority over your creative desires. There is a job that needs to be focused on in order to justify a paycheck. Your spouse has expectations which require you to divert your attention elsewhere.

Or maybe the door to that wonderful area of your mind simply closes and leaves you with only the first few inspired words.

You go through your day and think of them, hoping to make it back to that sweet grove of creativity in the dark forest of your imagination. But the path is lost to you and you wander the woods looking for familiar trees.

You can't let the words lie dormant for too long, for you know the spark that ignited them was tied to mind and heart in a gestalt whole that can't be replicated. So on the remaining fumes of the epiphany you start scribbling down more words that go in a direction which seems appropriate to the meaning that flashed before your mind's eye.

However, the words you are writing now are hard coming, and you have to work for them. And in the violent wrestling with a mind not sparking so fully, you think that you have strayed badly from original intent.

There may be a few more moments of inspiration along the way in the process. They are helpful, but often only for a line or two. In rare moments, there is enough juice to carry you through to the end with minor bumps along the way. If you are really fortunate, it all comes fairly quickly which is nice, but actually makes you question the legitimacy of what you have written.

The process could take minutes, hours, even weeks. In the end you have a completed piece in front of you. A totally birthed poem.

You are unimpressed with the result. It doesn't come anywhere near capturing that genesis moment when inspiration first struck. The message to it warped and deviated from course leaving you with something totally different from what was originally envisioned.

You read it and say, "Meh. I'll keep it, throw it into the shoebox with all the others and hope something else comes along."

But a strange thing happens.

You reread the poem several times. You look at it, maybe make some adjustments to it for better flow, more natural wording. You caress it. You consider it from different perspectives.

A new vision comes to your mind. This poem is actually better than you once thought. It fulfills a purpose previously not considered when the beginning was fresh.

You grow to love it.

You realize it has its own unique voice, a personality that isn't found in other poems you've written.

It has value.

It is your offspring.