Creative Principles

                        Creative Principles


The creative process can be divided into four distinct principles. These four creative principles represent the roles, attributes, or different ways of thinking involved in each step of the creative process. Each is given a title and takes on a bit of personality. These principles can be used for creative problem solving and are equally applicable to the creative process of a writer. The four principles I will examine are: The Explorer. The Artist. The Judge. The Warrior.

The Explorer: The Explorer is the principle which discovers the resources you'll use to create new ideas. The Explorer conducts research, does background reading, looks for ideas, and plans roughly where everyone is going to go for the rest of the project.

The Artist: The Artist is the principle for transforming resources into new ideas. The Artist is exactly what it sounds like, the one who carries out the artistic process. The one who does the actual writing, composing, choosing concepts, drawing metaphors, writing descriptions, impressions, reflections . . . in short, the creating itself.

The Judge: The Judge is the principle which evaluates an idea and decides what to do with it. A Writer's Judge decides what to keep and what to cut. The Judge helps with editing, slimming, tightening, polishing, and generally getting the piece finished.

The Warrior: The Warrior is the principle which implements your idea. For a writer, the Warrior is the one who does the marketing; the one in charge of researching the best markets, sending the piece out to potential markets, handling rejection letters and sending the piece out again. A writer's Warrior needs to be brave, unsentimental, aggressive and persistent.

So, we have these four distinct principles, each with a title and . . . did someone say "a bit" of personality? Um. A bit. Remember we are talking about writers here.

Gustave Flaubert said: "It is a delicious thing to write, to be no longer yourself, but to move in an entire universe of your own creating." Indeed, Gustave, and while you are within that world, you get to be many, many different people as well. Anne Sexton said: "It's a little mad, but I believe I am many people." Mad indeed, but aren't we all? And then there is the quote from one of my own favorite writers, Anonymous: "Writers aren't exactly people . . . They’re a whole lot of people trying to be one person." Or, conversely, one person trying to be a whole lot of people. I guess none of you are really anxious to discuss the fine line between artists and schizophrenics? I didn't think so.

Rebecca West said: "I write books to find out things." By the same token, we also write to find interesting people. Some of those interesting people turn out to be us. While each of these four principals are cardinal forces in creation, as you think of them and spend time with them; as it happens quite often with a writer - they begin to take on personalities.  These are mine.

The Explorer: Julia

I would like you to meet my Explorer. She is an intelligent, dedicated researcher whose name is Julia. Julia and I both like to do research and background reading. She is a fearless, inquisitive investigator with strawberry blonde hair that just won't stay in it's pins, but floats like apricot feathers around her pale, pretty face as she bends over her books. Julia is fascinated by everything; always wanting to search for more and more information. She is full of never ending curiosity, unceasingly interested in whatever I am working on. She never wants to stop searching. Sometimes, her enthusiasm runs away with her; and everything else in the world must be put on hold while she is hot on the trail of some fascinating new piece of information. Julia laughs a lot. She is amused as well as intrigued by the things that her research turns up. Julia and I work well together and are very good friends. In fact, I have been known to get stuck at the point of exploring and never manage to go any further in the process. Instead of doing the writing that I am supposed to be doing, Julia and I are sending out for Pizza at midnight and reading somebodies research on the Internet that hasn't got anything what so ever to do with what I was supposed to be writing about.

The Artist: Elysia

My Artist has many names, many incarnations. This shape shifting, variable quality is a part of her personality; it is part of her charm; it is part of her effectiveness. When did an artist ever settle for one idea when there is a universe to choose from? My Artist is myriad by definition; multitudinous; multifarious . . . more.

She likes the personification that names her: Muse. She relishes things mythic, mystic and magic. In other places, at other times, she has been Duende, Pakaramdam, Nomo, and Mana. In this incarnation she has many aspects. She has often been Terpsichore, dreamer of The Dance. She has worn the face of Erato for love and lyricism or Calliope for eloquence; but she breathes poetry in a way that is only her own. In a wry comprehension of a writer's life, she has been both Melpomene and Thalia, sometimes at the same time!

She is a carder of concepts; a spinner of suggestion; a weaver of words. As I write in the deep velvet darkness, it is Selene, goddess of the moon; whose fingers brush my mind with a clear lucent light. Sometimes I am still writing when she sighs and melts into Danika, the silent morning star. She has been a wondering child with large gold eyes; an inquisitive maiden with long gold hair and for many years she answered to the name; Demeter.

For some time I have been expecting wrinkles, refined and finely chiseled, I thought; a crown of silver braids, perhaps; a calm and cultured wisdom. Instead, here is this sharp-witted old woman with a secret smile and the withered face of an ancient apple. I have begun to glimpse her at odd moments, tickling phrases and laughing in corners.

Today, in a easy, familiar way, she is Elysia. Her eyes are seagreen and gold, like mine, and she is quietly smiling. She looks at me and her smile deepens; one eye brow lifting slightly and I know that some sort of literary revels are afoot. Brimming in those eyes there is the promise of a wealth of words, shining like polished gems. Today we will mine together for sparkling wine colored rubies; gleaming starblue sapphires and scintillating violet amethyst. Together we will follow the labyrinthine spirals of my brain, discovering at each turn new riches of language. We will excavate cool green emeralds and iridescent fire opals; azure lapis lazuli, softly glowing rose quartz and creamy, lambent moonstone. Once we have gathered this huge treasure trove of words, we will squeeze them until our hands run with rainbows, then together we will finger paint poems in luminous colors against the sky, splashing them with expression and image; metaphor and dream. There is nothing in the world that I would rather do.

Elysia comes to me, down from the pine scented slopes and rocky crags of the Sacred Mountain. If you look at just the right moment, you might see her coming barefoot down the mountain side, her long white robes sweeping the heather and ivy. Her hair falls down her back in the blending colors of the sunset; golden, peach, scarlet, amber, crimson, pink. Her face is ageless; child, maiden, mother, crone; shifting with each flicker of light. A profound, abiding joy is in her face; the delight of movement, a relish for words. The secret smile is on her lips, revealing humor deep and mellow. Her face is etched with past laughter and fresh batches are always simmering in her eyes. These are words that slide in the mind, unbidden, as she passes from sunlight to shadow; enchantment, mystery, magic.

She has the presence of a goddess; the trust and understanding of a friend; the warmth and devotion of a mother. She believes in me implicitly and thoroughly and believes that there is nothing I cannot do. My only problem with my Muse is learning the patience to wait for her.

This is the thing: you have to work while you wait. The first step is often the hardest. You have to get your self into the chair. You have to get out your virtual ink, pen and parchment and start the words flowing. You have to prime the pump.

I sometimes get very uneasy at this point in the process; nervous, rebellious, uncertain, afraid. What if I can't write anything without her standing at my shoulder? What if I use my last cup of water to prime this pump and nothing comes out? My bones begin to feel dry and I am suddenly so thirsty. What if I am left parched and dehydrated in this arid land forever? What if I can't write at all? What would be left of me? Of course, I really know that this is looking at everything backwards.

Elysia has secret, sacred duties on the Holy Mountain; she spends a lot of time dancing in the mountain meadows and playing with words in the soft, mysterious mist at the mountains crest. However, I know, deep in my word-dry bones, that her real purpose in life is me. I know that when I have truly begun the process, she will come.

When I have put my self in the chair and my hands on the keyboard and the words begin to appear . . . when I have hauled the rocks out of the desiccated river bed, a silent silver trickle of water will begin. When the silt starts to wash away and the water begins to gush and flow clear and clean around my feet, then she will come. In a surge of metaphorical moisture she will come streaming to my side. I will feel her light wash through my thoughts, bright and sweet and strong. Soon the river will be rushing and roaring in full spate. Sometimes, between the two of us, we create a deluge; a flood of expression and eloquence so soaking, so drenching that it quenches even the most terrible of wordthirsts.

So, I know in my bones, but do not always accept with my mind, that the whole process is a matter of cause and effect; once I truly begin, she will be on her way. When I need her, and I have begun in earnest, she will come.

Sometimes I am selfish, immature and overly possessive, like a small child. I want her to stay with me all the time. She just smiles her secret smile. She holds my face cupped in her soft, strong hands and kisses my forehead. Then, looking into my eyes, she speaks softly. "Here is the secret that I bring. A gift for you, my beloved, from the hallowed silver mists of the Sacred Mountain. Listen. Listen. The ability, the art, the talent, the creative flow are yours. All the radiant words glistening in my caskets of spungold, they all belong to you. You are the one who knows how to weave them, how to color them, how to make them dance. I am your Muse and I will be with you always, but the ultimate truth is this: The Artist is you."

And so I sit in my mountain glade, as the late afternoon sunshine fades to bronze. I am ready to begin again, to prime the pump with my heartsblood and wait for the gush of answering words. With virtual pen and parchment before me, I sit thinking of the secret my Muse has told me . . . and wanting desperately to believe her.

The Judge: Hugh

Oh my. And now, after that most sublime moment, we come to a truly distressing and embarrassing fact. Some of my principals are highly dysfunctional. It's true. You didn't think this was going to be one big happy story did you? Well, it is not, because you see, there is Hugh.

Hugh is my Judge. I don't know what I did to deserve Hugh, but here he is. He is a small man with beady eyes and a pointed ratlike nose. He is balding and has a terrible habit of scratching at what is left of his long, thin, mouse-colored hair. This leaves the sad, scrawny hair sticking up all over the bald patches at odd angles. He looks so peculiar and dismal that it ought to make you feel sorry for him, but it doesn't. Hugh is just too odious to elicit an emotion as positive as sympathy. Anyone can tell, usually at first glance, that Hugh is a thoroughly obnoxious person. The expression on his face is a mixture of suspicion and haughty disgust. Hugh is very impressed with his position as Judge and feels that it makes him superior to everyone else. Hugh is a small man who is also small-minded. He is mean-spirited, disagreeable, surly, petulant and a walking illustration of intolerance.

Traditionally, the Judge's role is to evaluate an idea and decide what to do with it. Often the Judge assists in decision making, resolution of concepts, refining of thoughts. However, as a Judge, Hugh is a loose cannon. Hugh is a Judge gone bad. You can tell this by the things he says. "Do you call this writing?" he snaps. "This is awful! Do you really think anyone wants to read this swill? You are so pathetic!"

Did I mention that he was rude, irritable and extremely offensive? "You really can't write at all," Hugh says to me. "You think you can, but that only makes it worse. This is what we call 'self-delusion.' You are afraid to let anyone read your writing aren't you? Well, you've got a good reason. It STINKS!" This is just a sampling of Hugh's rhetoric.

Editing and revising are part of what The Judge is supposed to do, but Hugh has a one track mind and employing him as an editor is just not a sound choice, to say the least. He is a critic, nothing else, and a mean one at that. Old Hugh is not worth beans as a reviewer, appraiser or arbitrator of words.

One of the worst things about him is his vile habit of showing up when he is not wanted. He will turn up at any point in the creative process, spewing negative energy and hurtful words right and left. Let an idea even start to surface and from out of nowhere, Hugh will be there. "That's a ridiculous idea," he says, suddenly popping up beside my desk. "It would never work." I sigh and roll my eyes. "No one asked you, Hugh. This isn't your job. What are you doing here anyway? I'm only generating ideas."

"Hunh," Hugh snorts, "generating. Who taught you that big word? Spawning is more like it. Spawning stupidity. It's a idiotic idea and you haven't the talent to even begin it. You haven't the talent to begin and you never actually finish anything, do you?" Ouch, that one hurt.

“Go away, Hugh. Judges are not suppose to even comment on brain storming." He snorts again. "How can you be brain storming? In order to brain storm, one has to have a brain." Now I’m getting angry. "Get out of here Hugh! This is not even your department!" "Ohhh," he gives me an odious smile, "whose department is it? The department of total failures? That’s your department isn’t it?"

I've forgotten what my idea was in the first place. It was probably a stupid idea. I probably don’t have the talent to do it anyway, whatever it was.

You see what I mean? What is it Hugh after anyway? Creativity. It’s true, creativity is what Hugh is after, but not the production or magnification of creativity. The death of creativity is Hugh's goal. Hugh cannot stand creativity, originality, ingenuity or productivity. He hates novel ideas, fresh concepts and anything that produces in any way. He also hates laughter, accomplishment and peace of mind.

During the part of the creative process when a Judge might really come in handy, when it is time to make revisions, cut or edit, Hugh is usually nowhere to be found. It is just as well. All that Hugh has to contribute are churlish comments and negative vibrations. I know. For a long time I listened to Hugh's venomous whisperings and I believed them. But no more. Hugh has now been revealed, exposed, and unveiled as the scoundrel that he is. I now know all about Hugh. I know that Hugh is NOT to be trusted and I try never to listen to him at all, if I can help it.

Hugh has been banished.

The Adjutant Editor: Amelia Emily

Filling the spot left open by Hugh's regrettably obnoxious behavior, is my Adjutant Editor. An Adjutant Editor is not one of the original four principals, I admit, I made her up. She has been very helpful to me, however. She helps me trim words, search for and choose the best word, revise, cut and tighten my writing. It is my Adjutant Editor who is mostly responsible if my writing ever comes in at or under the word limit. Unlike her predecessor, she never comes until I need her. She never says anything negative to me, but is encouraging and motivating. She works hand in hand with my Muse. Of course, it was my Muse who first introduced me to AE, just as it was my Muse who finally unmasked Hugh and taught me to tune him out and send him away.

AE stands for Adjutant Editor and also for Amelia Emily, which is her name. AE is tall, willowy, soft spoken and extremely efficient. She wears practical dove-gray robes, belted with functional dark grey ribbions. Her soft, matte black hair is pulled back in a neat chignon at the base of her neck. When I need her, she comes walking briskly, up from the valley. She sits down beside me, ready to help me sort, catorgorize, revise, tighten or anything else that I might require. Amelia is effective, intelligent, understanding, skillful, and above all positive. Her calm, confident, affirmative manner is a profound relief after years with Hugh. AE is a constant help and support to me, but she is not a Judge. Since I have decided not to communicate with Hugh anymore, I am technically a writer without a Judge. Does a writer really need a Judge? This is a question that still must be answered.

The Warrior: Fernando!

Last, but not least, let me introduce my Warrior, the bold Fernando! Ah! Fernando is so beautiful! He has long, glossy, waving black hair which he wears pulled back and tied with a velvet ribbon. He has jet-black, ebony eyes, framed by dark sooty lashes. Around his neck he wears a scarf of scarlet and has a look upon his handsome face which is completely . . . blank. Empty. Vacant. Nobody home. Alas! We are about to embark upon another tale of dysfunction.

First, let's make something completely clear, right from the beginning; any similarity between this tale and another story about a bull with a similar name and a delicate ego is absolutely . . . true. Alas!

You see, like his bovine counterpart, Fernando likes flowers. The thing that Fernando likes best is to sit all day in a lovely meadow smelling the flowers and (alas!) smoking the flowers. Fernando is very easygoing. Fernando is very complaisant. Fernando is very laid back. Fernando is very mellow. Fernando is a really, really terrible warrior.

Fernando is not brave. Fernando would be afraid of the bull with whom he has so much in common. Fernando would be afraid of the bee. Fernando is afraid of anything larger or more menacing than a daisy. Fernando is afraid of snapdragons.

"We need to send some of these poems out to try and get them published," I say to Fernando. His dark, gypsy eyes widen and fill with tears. "We ccccan’t do that," he stammers through the tears which are now flowing down his cheeks. He shakes his head mournfully. "You know what happens. They will . . . they will . . ." a huge sob racks his wide shoulders, "they will get re . . . re . . . rejected!" He is now shaking with sobs. "I just can't . . . STAND it when they get rejected!" So much for unsentimental.

No, Fernando is not bold. Fernando is not daring. Fernando is not dauntless. Fernando is not heroic, valorous, valiant, courageous, fearless, gallant, or stouthearted. Fernando is not aggressive.

"You are supposed to help me fight for my right to be published," I tell Fernando one day. He focuses on me with some difficulty. "It's what you are supposed to do. It's your job! It’s what you were created for!" My voice keeps getting tighter and higher.

"Oh, wow," Fernando moans, "PLEase, just don’t talk about JOBS man. You’re really bringing me down."

"I’ve GOT to start submitting stuff for publication!" I cry, my voice rising, slightly hysterically. I am never going to get anything published, because I never send anything out!"

Fernando’s face is a mask of tragedy and crystal tears begin to slide down his dark skin. He wipes his cheeks with his fingers, looking down at his hands, even more dismayed. “Oh, shit man! Lookat what you’ve gone and done! Now, I’m CRYing. Why do you treat me this way? Why are you always so down?” He holds the back of one long, beautiful hand against his forehead and sighs. “Everyone is always picking on me. Ganging up on me. Trying to make me DO things. I just . . . I just can’t get no satisfaction! You step outa line, the man come and take you away. Don’t you know the times, the times they are a changing? . . .” suddenly his face clears, though the tears are still shining in his beautiful Gypsy eyes. He smiles.

He smiles right at the tree behind me. "Yeah, OK. Whatever dude. Just don't tell me about it if they get rejected. That is such a bummer. I don’t wanna know!"

He reaches down into the high meadow grass and picks a small yellow flower. He holds it to his face and inhales happily. "Hey dude," he says to me, "didya know you can snort these?


©Edwĭna Peterson Cross


AFTERWARD:  There is an X-rated story concerning how I managed to fire my Judge, the obnoxious Hugh. Let me know if you are interested. It is interesting and maybe only PG13. Who knows?