In Amy Tan’s video on ted.com on her outlook on creativity, she said that her definition of the word is creating something out of nothing. She believes that this is a key aspect of creativity and a dominating component of the ability to create. I agree with this notion, as to create, by definition, means “to bring something into existence.” However, I believe that in our creative processes, we gain inspiration from outside sources, or possibly internal sources, and use them to produce something profound. In saying this, we are not necessarily creating from nothing; we are drawing from other forces to motivate our creativity. Still, in my processes anyway, we are generating something from intangible inspirations. I found this take on creativity interesting and wanted to see what I could create out of nothing. To do this, I asked a friend of mine to come up with simple, unsophisticated sentences. I, in an attempt to develop something creative, transformed these sentences into a scene of fiction. This is what I was able to come up with…
1. Original Sentence: He waited for his son.
He stood tall and solid, like a boulder. His hands were clasped behind his back and he rocked back and forth on the balls of his feet. His beard and hair were speckled with grey and his glasses sat firm on his nose. His grey suit was faded and worn but he stood proud and waited patiently at the harbour.
He could see the boat approaching. He smiled beneath his moustache, still rocking back and forth, like the water rolling in the sea. The boat docked.
Young men and women filed off of the ship, in uniform. They lugged their baggage behind them as they trudged down the ramp. There he was. He stood tall and solid, like his father. As he stepped out into the misty ocean air, he scanned the throng of people waiting for their family members to return from the war. The two men’s eyes connected. The young man slung his pack over his shoulder and marched through the crowd. He stopped directly in front of his father and dropped his bag to the ground. He raised his arm and saluted.
“Father,” he said, bringing his arm back down to his side. He stood with his chin raised and his chest puffed out. He maintained a stoic expression, waiting for his father’s acceptance. He had fought for this respect, he deserved it.
“Son,” his father said, grasping his son’s shoulder. His son looked him in the eye, his composed facade wavering. A tear rolled down his father’s cheek, disappearing in the tangle of his beard. His son had never seen him cry. His father pulled him close and they embraced. “I have never been more proud.”
“Thank you, father,” he choked into his father’s neck. “Thank you so much.”
2. Original Sentence: I would miss her if she left.
She was going to leave. She was heading to the airport as I sat there in my room, wallowing in self-pity, doing nothing to stop her. Slouched on my bed, leaning against the wall, curled up, lights off, completely silent – I made no effort. I shivered, rubbed my arms. The phone rang. I shot upright. It rang again, the sound blaring out against the silence like a foghorn in the mist, as a ship makes its way home following the beam from a lighthouse. I heaved myself off the bed and glanced at the caller ID. My heart skipped a beat. My hands shook as though I had drank six cups of coffee.
“Shelley,” I breathed.
“Tom!” she exclaimed. That voice, that musical sound, was like warm cocoa on a winter day. I exhaled, closed my eyes.
“Shelley, don’t go.”
“I’m not,” she said. “I can’t. Meet me at our spot.”
“I’m on my way,” I told her. No hesitation.
I felt like I was floating as I flew down the stairs and out into the chill of the November air. The rain poured down in sheets. My t-shirt soaked through in seconds and clung to my skin. The intrusive bullets of rain pelted my bare arms.
I ran as fast as I could, propelling myself forward, closer and closer. She got there first. As I approached I saw her standing next to the lake on the grassy spot where we’d spent countless summer nights. I remember stealing expensive bottles of wine from my parents and driving down to the lake with her. We would drink from plastic cups, too young to recognize the quality of the wine for what it was. It was the first place I had ever kissed her.
She turned and saw me, her face illuminating like the beacon of light guiding me back to her. I kept running. She ran to me, leapt into my arms, and threw her own around my neck. Clinging to me, she whispered, “Never let me go.” I promised I wouldn’t.
She leaned back, still in my arms, her eyes twinkling like the stars we knew were hidden beneath the clouds showering us with rain. I recognized that glint, that mischievous grin. I nodded and placed her gently on her feet.
She tore off her coat and kicked off her shoes, already running towards the lake. I laughed, loving her more each second. How had I almost let her go? I dove in after her, the freezing water clawing at my skin like hungry wolves. But I didn’t care. She was here. I was here. And that was all that mattered.
