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Essays

Rehabilitation

Sean Moore

Some days, some weeks even, I feel as though there is nothing in the world that could compel me to do creative work. And then suddenly, one morning at 4 AM, I will sit down at my desk, groggy and bleary-eyed, and crank out 2500 words.

What is it that separates these artistic doldrums from the frenzied tempests of action? Where is the key that unlocks this mysterious high-drive that produces work? What compels creativity?

The ideas are there, the desire to make is there. But suddenly, when I sit in front of the computer, perfectly-formed paragraphs that were floating in my head suddenly evaporate in an instant. I wonder if it is a mirage. Other times, my spinning mind will keep me up for hours, endlessly turning and re-crafting paragraphs as I lay, silent and still, pleading with my mind to just turn off because I know the second I jump out of bed, turn on the light and grab a pen, it will be gone.

I know there will be peaks and valleys in my work; but it has begun to feel like the valley are becoming increasingly wide, and the peaks now resemble spires, so abrupt are their ascent and descent.

It’s as if a creative depression has taken hold.


But there is still something there, even fleetingly. A few embers left among the ashes. And as long as that is so, there’s a choice: let them die out, or, however long it may take, stoke them to reignite a fire.

In many ways I consider these kinds of personal writings as a form of rehabilitation, and I view my writing here as a barometer for my overall creative health. When there is regular publishing and lengthy, fleshed-out pieces, I’m in control of my faculties. When instead the ground lays fallow and bare, I’ve fallen into a rut. And when the personal side gets exposed, that means I’m doing my best to work it out.

And work it out I shall. Eventually. And I hope you’ll continue reading as I do.