Invention
I like buying cookies at Trader Joe's. They have a lot of cookies.
But perhaps they're a bit repetitive. I mean, how do we choose between six similar chocolate chip cookies? Do we get the Belgian or French chocolate butter cookies, if there is even a difference (cherchait la bagarre)? I find peace only with the knowledge that I can always return—yes, I see how the store is psychologically manipulating me and I refuse to stop. In the back-and-forth of trying out their similar products, I eventually will converge upon a list of favorites. I am generally happy to engage in the process; it is the only one I know.
Of course, I could have sought higher-order reasoning in this matter, consulting with myself on which cookie most aligns with my sense of self. That's rather tempting for an artist like me, perhaps more than actually buying the cookies. I could say, "O! Homogeneous display! Plain are thy flavors!" I could criticize the store, asking if the umpteenth variety was an homage or parody. I could write an article on it. All while wasting away, spending my energy but saving my money!
Yet the store would serve a most pithy response:
So, I just buy the damn cookies. I treat writing similarly.
Invention shares space with ideation and inspiration, but also brainstorming. It invites the artist to connect their creativity with their craftsmanship, though it rarely offers instructions. We're left with brain and storm, suggesting a violent act of human cognition; it warns of Frankenstein: having harnessed the power of lighting to produce a living being, he fled, terrified of his creation. When we choose to move our hands, what are we to make?
It is not uncommon to be afraid of your ideas.
In response, it is not uncommon to attack your ideas to the point you have none left. We are often inspired without a clear cause; similarly, we can uninspire ourselves. Attacking your ideas upfront can seem like a useful form of criticism, immediately weeding out the bad ideas. Instead of yelling at TJ's cookie aisle, I recommend we be more compassionate toward our ideas. Valuing well-formed works derived from great vision does not necessitate being disgusted by undeveloped ideas. A painter doesn’t scoff at the colors on their palette, seeing the same old story to be told once more. They look forward to their impression on the canvas.
How everyone creates art is different, and I can only speak for myself. The two common themes as I see:
Write first, judge later.
Capture everything and defer criticism for a bit. This falls under the usual techniques taught in introductory composition courses. You might have a sense or vague idea of what you want to write or perhaps a very clear idea. Even better, no idea at all! You just want to write something. Whatever it be, start with that something, and don't let your fears get in the way.
Don't worry about being organized at this stage. At most, note any strong feelings you have toward your ideas and let that be a place to grow new ideas. Consider variations and different perspectives. Explore ideas, knowing there will be plenty of time to tune them up with your learned skills. Even if your core artistic interest lies in the technical, defer the technical applications.
For me, this means don’t get too attached just yet. I like to focus on feeling entranced. This is where I employ freewriting and following prompts; they limit my attachment while keeping my focus. It is not uncommon to become inspired while freewriting, so it's worth developing personal methods for it. For instance, if I have an idea but am struggling to translate that into music, I'll sometimes choose a random string of notes with no particular order or length. Then, I'll fit in some larger musical ideas and play with them from there. Sometimes, those ideas are put back on the shelf. Other times, they inspire me to try new ideas. Much like clay, the musical idea is shaped by me, and I just needed something unmolded to start with.
Listen.
I think art that you and others can commune with is great. It is a mark of excellence to achieve such artistic creation and I admire those who perform it; they do more than gasp in effort but breathe into form. This sentiment influences my artistic aspirations—I hope to create and nurture, listening very closely for the first heartbeat.
My earliest understanding of this came from my playwright friend. As she writes, she primarily focuses on creating the characters, hoping to see them as real people with developed personalities; they have her respect. Then, they are placed into a setting that suits them and observes. I resonate strongly with the idea of an artist giving ideas and integrity that could house some being. Then, simply perceive. How the work is perceived and interpreted (i.e. how we commune with it) seems to be a matter of aesthetics. The nature of others' aesthetic choices is not my focus (I am only a cookie critic), but I think we can gain a lot by considering how we perceive our own ideas as our taste develops. Our favorite writings tend to write themselves—perhaps instead of a muse speaking through us, we just listen.
It never mattered what cookies I bought from Trader Joe's. I've allowed myself to take them home, deferring judgment until I taste them. I think inventing art can be done by disengaging with judgment and freely developing ideas until they yearn for contemplation. Then, engage with them not by judging but by observing. This should not be limited to the beginning of the creative process. Though I am well into drafting the third movement of my first symphony, I still invent. As I write, the music manifests forms I did not initially predict, pleasantly surprising me. When this happens, I note it for future revision and continue. In this way, I can't help but give my presence and listen—as with a good friend in hearty conversation. Through invention, I develop the trust that the art truly exists.
—Gio
P.S. I'll note that I've avoided mentioning scientific invention, though I sense that it is similar (you could guess my stance from reading my previous post in addition to this). However, I think that I'll need to carefully consider the history of rationalism to write that well, and thus I defer that to future writing.