Strange how I get most of my work done on the bus to work than in the office. By the time I buckle down in front of the computer, I am better at doing than thinking, and I would be lucky to squeeze out one original thought then.
When are you most creative?
Tuesday, November 15, 2005
The thinking place
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9 comments:
Sometimes the clarity I get while running is absolutely amazing. Somehow I thought that would be your most creative time...
as do i... some how, the journeys to and from work on public transportation are the most energising in terms of creativity... perhaps because one is bombarded by humanity in all its various forms, shapes, smells, tastes and sounds... it's like a river - different in composition each time you step into it, the myriad combinations and permutations of passengers in a particular bus or carriage at any given time is astounding... unlike in a car or a cab, where one is cocooned in a private space, lulled by one's preferred station or CD...
I'm most creative when I'm away from a computer or a pen and a piece of paper.
Having said that, I find inspiration when things I'm passionate about are being tipped over my mental balance, or when my indifference towards matters become provoked.
I am at my most creative, which isn't all that much even then, in the early hours of the morning. THe problem is I can't make myself get up then. Ah, life.
thc - I know what you mean when you write of the clarity you get while running. Running makes me feel alive (when I don't feel like I'm dying!). But I'm not very creative while running. Maybe because I don't usually think about work while running.
trainofthot - True. Your comment is like a summary of your old website. When are you going to reveal your new one? ;) Are those your kids?
smudgi3 - I'm the most eloquent when provoked too. :) But I may regret it later. Perhaps you should get the type of job that doesn't have to do with paper/ pen/ computer.
jim - haha! You must have very creative dreams!
hi again,
haha, no plans to unveil another blog just yet, altho have been toying with the idea...
but not this month tho, have been too busy trying to keep up with NaNoWriMo... my epic story degenerated and turned into a porno flick... revealing darker tendencies I'm afraid...
http://ungiven.blogspot.com
as for kids, which ones do you mean?
Eric, conjugate Spanish verbs? :) All I can think about while cycling is how not to get hit by a bus.
Colin, cool, you're doing NaNoWriMo again! Though I wonder after that intro, if I dare to read your short story? ;)
Don't deny the kids! :)
here's an excerpt:
The man lay dying on the public hospital bed, amid a tangle of tubes in a ten-bed second class ward. Had he lived up to his father’s expectations, he would, instead, have been ensconced in a luxurious first class room of a private hospice – under the 24-hour care of the world's best specialists. He was born The Prince of a dynasty that was backed by a mountain of wealth accumulated by seven generations of immigrant traders who had left southern China during the great Diaspora. His ancestors had struck out for the Nanyang – the Southern Ocean – in search of a new beginning, hoping to forge a better destiny in the new world. The legacy of his forefathers, who had built up from scratch, a business empire spanning the key nodes of the Straits Settlement and its linkages to Britain and China, was laid waste in just one single generation. His. Snatches of the Shelley sonnet – Ozymandias of Egypt – which this only son had learnt to recite from a British lady hired specially to tutor him English literature at home when he was just a child, fired in his oxygen-starved brain, reverberating through his inner being. He was the force of nature who had leveled the mighty House of Chin to rubble. And the irony of that oft-quoted line: "Look on my works, ye mighty, and despair!" was not lost on him – even as he lay dying. Mirroring the devastation he had wrought on his inheritance, his physical body was as battered by his hard-living lifestyle: drinking like there was no tomorrow, chain smoking cigars, and of course, the endless carousing with the most wanton of women. It came as no surprise to most, that he suffered from chronic liver cirrhosis, as well as an assortment of sexually transmitted diseases. He was at the final stages of lung cancer that had almost completely consumed him, as much as he had cancerously devoured all that he had been bequeathed.
Sweet.
Very different from the novel last year.
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