The creativity curse...

Children have so much imagination. As my improv teacher, Michael, reminded us our first day of class, kids are the best actors. They assign the roles of Mommy and Daddy, set the location--a house--and they live it. But what about imagination as an adult? As adults, particularly adult actors, we have to see the potential for a scenario to go in any number of directions. We read into what our partner says, we dwell on history and subtext. We fill in the blanks.
But I'm afraid that's become second nature to me... the filling in the blanks. I remind myself I have to talk to Bob about the leaky wall. I play out the conversation in my head, and I find myself reacting, feeling that conversation. If I know Bob, I'm probably just using the facts, what I know about him, to predict and prepare for what's next. But as I return to daily life, I've started thinking about Bob in terms of that conversation. And it's not just Bob. I can think myself into worrying over nothing, and I can think the problems away until I believe everything is just fine. But it's all in my head. Am I crazy? No. Am I am over-thinker? Yes. Do I have an "overactive" imagination? Maybe...
What does that mean anyway... overactive? Imagination is beautiful. And it happens to be one of the things I was gifted with. If not for my imagination, I would not create. The more I embrace this gift, the more active I let it become, cultivate it to become, the more I grow into what I love to be. But living in my head, I can make something of nothing and nothing of something. I can think my way into a corner or into judgment. I'm just a child with an imaginary friend... and then what does reality matter? Or what if it matters tremendously as reality collides head on with what I've been brewing all on my own? What happens when I meet the characters face to face, and I can't remember which version of themselves they actually are--one of my creations, exactly as I remember them, or some stranger? But strangers can become friends when I close my eyes. And those closest to me can become unrecognizable when I open them again.
Making something of nothing and nothing of something... creativity at it's finest and most confusing. And where am I in this--running around playing with all that I've made or sitting in the corner with my eyes closed imagining I am?