>Hold On, I Have To Take My Medicine

>No, I'm not running away from this paper.

Why do you ask?

Have you ever felt the pangs of inspiration in your stomach so deep and so intense that you have to lie down to keep the blood from rushing from your head too quickly to nurse the growing creation inside of you? Pregnant with inspiration. I think it could catch on.

It won't happen when you need it to, just be prepared for that. If you have a story due in a day I promise your head will be as empty as the day Lindsey Lohan tried to sue for defamation of character. You couldn't write the words if somebody handed them to you. You couldn't paint it if you were provided numbers. You couldn't play it if it were on tape.

On the other hand, if you will just wait for the one week you have absolutely no time to do anything resembling creativity, it will sneak up and sock you in the kidneys. It will grow like spores on your brain, it will be the melody stuck in your head or the image printed on your mind. It will consume you and paralyze the other facets of necessity that you absolutely have to get done.

I have been reading letters that the poet John Keats wrote to various people and I believe that he felt the same way about this sort of thing. He could tell when the creation was forced (and consequently ineffective) and when it flowed naturally. The most important thing about the creation is the message it attempts to get across - the thing towards which all art should strive: that it "should be great and unobtrusive, a thing which enters into one's soul, and does not startle it or amaze it with itself - but with its subject." "How beautiful are the retired flowers!" he says. " How would they lose their beauty were they to throng into the highway crying out, "admire me I am a violet! - dote upon me I am a primrose!"

The dude has a point.

The finest art should come to the reader or observer or listener "as a wording of his own highest thoughts, and appear almost a Remembrance." How can you communicate something like this if it is not natural for you? So are we to only write when we are too busy to write? Are we only to paint when we have a million other things to be doing?

If I said no, this blog would be a lie, for the majority of the things I have written came when i wish they hadn't, when I was too busy to breathe. in media res. But seeing as how 21st century America prefers their cubicles to their imaginations and hands somebody who paints pictures when they should be crunching numbers a prescription for Ritalin, I think that the little bursts are the most somebody like me can ask for. A man's gotta eat, right?

Hamilton Barber

The subject of this page is an introverted writer/musician/lunatic from Chattanooga, TN who dabbles in lexical dexterity, unorthodox thoughts on prosperity, and being overwhelmingly undeserving of the privilege of waking up every day. He hopes that everybody who reads these words takes them to heart and leaps higher than he ever could. He reads, thinks, and speaks too much; he listens, works, and loves too little; and he says “I” entirely too often. The words on these pages are not his: they are the words that were given to him.