Most of the time, I don’t know how to make anything. I don’t know how to make anything because I don’t know what to make. I don’t know what to write about, or build, or talk about. I survive in a nearly constant state of writer’s block, punctuated by acute moments of clarity when the voice inside me speaks at three hundred words a minute, and I grab the nearest writing utensil or perhaps a suitable alternative and start scribbling madly to write down what it’s saying. I scribble quickly so I don’t miss it, even though I know I will. My mind is an overflowing pot, and my paper is a leaky bucket. And I submit myself to the reality that I’ll miss most of the good stuff, and just let it pour out over me, so with luck, I may salvage enough of the good ideas pouring out from somewhere deep within me so that I can sustain me creative engine until the next time the pot overflows.
Most of the time, though, the pot isn’t overflowing. The voice within me goes silent, and I spend my time feeding that inner voice and filling the pot. It’s like recharging a battery, except that I don’t know when I’ll be done. I just keep feeding the beast until it decides at some point that it’s had enough, and it’s time to overflow again.