I got out the brew kettle yesterday. It’s been a while since I whipped up a batch of beer, but the entire process felt familiar and proceeded smoothly. And, of course, the kitchen smelled wonderful. The kitchen also required a thorough cleaning, but creating a bit of a mess is an unavoidable consequence of brewing beer.
There is a sense of satisfaction that accompanies making something yourself. A feeling of accomplishment. Something akin to ownership, but at a deeper level than possession of something you merely purchased. I made this, this is mine.
Writing provides a similar glow of pride. “I wrote that,” you think upon seeing your output’s publication for the first time, the final results of your dedication and craftsmanship. There is a difference, however. Once the brewing process is complete, you’ll want to drink the beer. When your novel reaches publication, you’re unlikely to want to read it one more time. The enjoyment of the product is vicarious.
So, if you’re feeling a creative urge, get out there and make something, build something, cook something, write something. You may end up making only a mess, but damnit, it’s your mess.