The creative process is many things, an exhilarating and exhausting experience — a series of sustained bursts of writing, singing, recording and editing — but it is not, and you should never try to make it be, a delayed phenomenon.
For there is no muse who arrives once you have paid homage to her powers, and appears after you have rendered offerings unto her majesty and beauty, who will use you as her amanuensis; blessing you with the ability to suddenly find the words — to summon the spirit who temporarily dwells within that circle of candles and incense — so you can write with abandon, sing with style and grace, and go from silent frustration to vocal exultation — all because you refuse to do anything, until she makes her presence known.
The fact is, work makes you creative.
The hard work of blood, toil, tears and sweat makes you an artist.
You have to earn the right to sit beside those studio musicians, to enter that control room with its keyboards and consoles, and its row of dials and displays — an electronic cockpit of auditory flight, where the slightest adjustment of this input or that output can change the trajectory of your ascent toward the heavens or your descent to earth.
I seek to soar.
I seek to fly.
I am recording a new album — in Nashville.