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On Creativity

It’s a strange thing, this need to write.

My mind itches, and the only way to scratch it is to put down words. The same way it itches when I need to take a photograph.

But what to write?

I can’t just ramble. Can’t spin out words with no story, no detail, no subject. Who’d want to read that? And what photo would I pair with it? Any photo? Or one that feels like these words sound?

So I sit here, searching. Turning over thoughts like stones. Looking for something that matches these first fifty words. But nothing comes. My fingers move across the keyboard anyway. Words spill onto the screen, but they don’t say anything.

Then it hits me. A sharp, cold truth. I’m writing because I need to. Because the day was full of work—thorny, tedious, troublesome work. And now I’m here, over a hundred words in, and I see it clearly. I’m talking about creativity.

Writing is like taking a photo. You start with nothing but a feeling. No clear idea. No shape. But you move forward anyway. You write. You shoot. And something begins to form. The pain eases. The itch subsides.

Writing is hard. Ideas don’t always come. But you write anyway. You put the words down. Let them find their form. Let the meaning emerge, slow and uncertain, like the sun breaking through storm clouds.

And the photo? That’s easy. Pick one you like. It doesn’t have to be perfect.

I needed to write. To create. And now I have.