Being in the middle of creativity means being in the flow.
And I was never so often in the flow like when I was in junior high.
In my junior high, we had a weekly writing class. The writing class was two 45-minute classes combined together with a 10-minute break.The teacher would use the first 15 minutes to talk about the composition we wrote in the previous week’s session. Usually the best work would be picked out and also read out loud by the teacher to the whole class. Then we would get a new topic, and use the rest of the time to write a new piece.
I normally took about 5 minutes to think about what I would write. And then there went my pen, on my notebook.
The words started coming out and then they were pouring down from the tip of my pen. I had no need to pause. I didn’t need to think. I guess the magic was somehow that I wasn’t thinking so that the words could come out by themselves.
I wrote fast when the scene I was writing got intense; I slowed down when everything in my character calmed down. I couldn’t hear anything happening around me. I remember once my deskmate asked me whether I was writing about boys.
“Why?” I asked.
“Your face is all read,” He grinned. “and your ears too!”
I felt drunk. Now if I look back, I think how I felt was similar to a light drunkenness. It’s like he just woke me up from a dream. I felt warm in my body, the world around me felt blurry.
I never used the 10-minute break to go to the bathroom or drink water. I just kept writing. There’s no decision needed to be made. It’s just flowing.
The worst of the worst at this moment was my pen dried up. But my pencil was there ready to fulfil its duty for my creativity.
I used up the whole 70 minutes and finished the composition just on time. I had to, because we had to hand our work in right after the session.
The writing class was definitely one of my favourite classes. Not just because my works were very often read out loud and praised by the teacher. Nothing else – NOTHING – has been more enjoyable than being in the flow like that.
And every week. Same time. I was in there.
Like I was “possessed”, taken over by something.
Like for a short moment, I didn’t exist anymore. There was just words flowing out. And maybe I was in the words.