"Can you come back at a better time?!"

Elizabeth Gilbert talking about creativity and mentions a little something about Tom Waits...

http://www.ted.com/talks/elizabeth_gilbert_on_genius.html


I should really type this on the typewriter and scan it in:

I don’t understand what the big deal with drinking is. I mean, I can perfectly understand the fact that we have car accidents caused by drunk drivers but when I come home and am miserable or miserably happy and want to have a drink, I’m gonna come home and have a drink and stay the fuck home. I may attempt to write a masterpiece shortly after that and then become disappointed because I start thinking too much about how the next thing that I create should be a masterpiece. But ya know when the right song comes on, the air in the room suddenly becomes one with your breath, and you start writing a song? The outside noises start singing our songs. I gently weep inside and wonder, "should I go make myself another drink?" Should I just keep writing aimlessly and beat the shit out of my doubts, my worries, my fears, and the thought that my typing is not as fast as my mind? It’s an illusion really. To think what we want to feel, constantly being watched over by some kind of monster. He follows you to work in the morning and on the subway ride back home, when you’re with your lover, your friends, and your family. Another being, maybe the feeling of a soul. And I tell it all the time to walk away, and to come back and save me all in the same damn day. I almost went to go back to the beginning of this paragraph to read it and then got extremely overwhelmed to come back to the end of this sentence and impress every single word above this. Shall I make a bet with myself? Myself and my being playing the game of fencing with bright silver fencing suits, and long flimsy swords. The sun beats down into the room and reflects off of my suit into my components eyes. He is blinded! I think, “here’s my chance,” but then realize that in that moment I am not happy and should not defeat anyone while I am unhappy. So I stop and throw down my sword. I rip my silver suit off and it flies across the room in slow motion. My arm slowly makes its way back to my body while my eyes turn in my head, and the spit flies from my mouth. I all of a sudden start thinking about the movie Rambo and want to watch it. I’m starting to feel like a wooden fish, whatever that means.