Getting a smart phone roughly coincides with spending gobs of time on Twitter, which began for me around May 2013.
Before any of that happened, I lamented being socially isolated, but . . . I painted paintings, I took tens of thousands of photographs, I fooled around with fiber and fabric, I noodled around with poetic forms, I sketched, …
Obviously time spent on Twitter is time I’m not spending being creative, but the real problem is something else.
I need to get bored.
I need to have “nothing to do” for long enough stretches of time that, in desperation, I turn to my environment to find problems to solve. Or feelings to express. Or I just follow my (boundless) curiosity wherever it leads.
Social interaction is so unbelievably taxing of my emotional energy that . . . it doesn’t leave any energy to get bored with. What would eventually develop into boredom if I were alone, instead becomes anxiety about feeling ignored or marginalized, or worrying that my creative output is inferior to what I see my Twitter-friends producing.
The still, small voices inside that I’ve spent years trying to uncover can’t compete with gobs of anxiety and worry, which are, after all, only too familiar, and … let’s be honest … in a certain sense, comfortable. And all those years I was mired in them? I was not creating. I was, in fact, creatively blocked.
I don’t especially relish realizing that I might need gobs of solitude, and silence in my own mind, to create the kinds of stuff that I crave releasing into the world. And yet, that’s what the situation appears to be.
Tomorrow morning, I dive.