This morning, I’m working on View No. 20 in my body of work, 1000 Views of God. As I recreate one of the lumbering AT-AT Imperial Walkers of the ice planet Hoth (remember those mechanical behemoths from Star Wars: The Empire Strikes Back?), I’m struck by the varied sources of inspiration that I pull from.

Films, photos, music, family life, meditations, therapy sessions, you name it. But there is one thing in common when culling from any of these sources: I create my best work, when stirred by significance.

In some ways, this seems like a no-brainer. But I think back on my college days, when I would frequently write papers, build screenplays, or make films based on nothing more than the creative urge itself, and the powerful rush it gave me. In fact, I often felt the biggest high when the work was devoid of meaning, lacking in purpose. When readers or viewers couldn’t pin anything down, and they were left with only their own interpretation to hold on to. I was deconstructing the creative process, and doing so with a vengeance.

Don’t get me wrong: I have plenty of respect for freewriting and stream-of-consciousness practices – but I’ve found that that’s exactly what they are best suited to be: practices. When I elevate and exalt what’s reaped from these practices, and showcase them as the best I can do – the culmination of my creative potential – I find they fall flat.

And, I’m all for spontaneous moments of seemingly random creativity – a jig in the kitchen when I’m touched by joy, or a goofy singalong with my kids. I’m speaking more to the larger projects, where I invest more of my time and energy.

Eventually, a mood of “blah” began to seep into my everyday experience. I was at the height of creating for no one other than…me. For the rush I got from the creative push. Similar to an addiction, that just doesn’t give back what the highs seem to promise. I felt strung-out, undernourished, empty.

I began to sense that there is something to say, there is more to it than this empty stream of acts pouring from a near-empty cup. There is a possibility for deeply gratifying creativity. Rich, fertile territory to explore. Nourishing not just for myself, but for others, too.

This is where I find myself this morning, at the crossroads between the act of creation, and the creation itself, between freedom on the one hand, and fullness on the other. Neither one nor the other, but both.

What’s your experience with the creative act? (and this could be virtually anything: cooking, dancing, writing, getting dressed in the morning, you name it) Does this resonate, or no? Is it a blessing, and a curse, of our times: infinite freedom to speak whatever we wish, but not a whole lot to say? Need we say anything at all?