In essence, I think I am, and always have been, a creative person. Somewhere deep inside me, there is this drive to make something. To make anything really. As a toddler I was already scribbling notebooks full with my drawings and, as I grew on, the drawings became paintings. Later on in life, I got a camera, and I learned about the wonderful world of photography. Other arts and crafts followed and managed to spark my interest. A fair bit of tinkering also got added to the list. Welding, soldering, and pyrography. Writing is the most recent thing I picked up. This made me wonder; what is it about creativity that has such a pull on me? Why do I need to create in order to feel alive?
In my search for an answer, I found out there was no answer. At least not a single one. There are many reasons why I have a desire to create, and all of them seem equally important. One of the answers came from my childhood. When I grew up we were quite poor, so chances were if you wanted something you had to make it. That way of life primed me to look different at the world. I’m by no means poor anymore, but I will still consider making something before buying it. Another answer comes from my personality. Although I talk with ease and even seem to be capable of expressing my feelings quite well, there are layers of my emotional world that I’m too insecure to share. That part of me, which usually remains hidden, comes out in my creations. But there are more answers. I make because it feels useful, because it is my way form of meditation and I make because it is awesome!
Now, these answers apply to all creative activities equally, except to writing. Even though I only picked up writing recently, it feels so very different to everything else I do. I am a true atheist but to write is almost a religious experience. As if my proverbial soul finds its peace when writing. I don’t yet know why my feelings are so different when I write, and to be honest I’m not sure I want to know. Let it be part of the magic. The magic of making.