I’m out of town on a family trip. I’m supposed to be vacationing. Instead, I’ve written more than a thousand words for the blog, read a hundred pages of this book, practiced katakana, and now I’m writing this in a coffee shop at 7 am.
At home, most of this stuff I wouldn’t consider ‘work.’ Checking email, checking up with clients, checking What’s Happening — that I would have considered work. Those things feel more Official, more Productive with a capital P. Checking my incoming tricks my brain into thinking that I’m Mr. Busy. I fall for it every time.
But this creative stuff? This pompous writing, this hipster-in-a-coffee-shop-writing-political-rants-on-his-blog? For me to consider that unproductive is terribly ironic. The most productive tasks are the most creative. What could be more productive than using those precious early mornings and late nights for creating that which did not exist before? What could be more productive, more healthy to man’s spirit than what must come out of it?
Our most fresh, original works come when we’re not rushing things, when we’re not pretending to be robots with instruction manuals. Creativity has no instruction manual. Creativity knows no pace other than the pace with which the creative must get these things out there. Creativity is not an art, it’s a necessity. The creative must, must, must create. Otherwise, they perish. Otherwise, they die.