The Call for Creative Destruction

To create for a long time, we must learn to destroy

In the pandemic I was obsessed. I took photos of everything I cooked. Not the final dish. But everything I peeled and discarded. Garlic peels, cucumber jackets, watermelon rinds.

I had an epiphany. For every omelette, a plate of onion skins, eggshells, and tomato bellybuttons was dumped into the bin. Meaning: in order to create anything, I must be ready to discard a lot.

Meaning: Creativity is blocked not when I am scared of creating, but scared of letting go.

The word decision shares a root word with homicide and suicide. No wonder decisions cause me anxiety. Every choice is a violent act of cutting off possibilities. The roads not taken haunt me.

Creative decisions are paralyzing. I take five days to choose one essay idea. Editing freezes my fingers. Publishing gives me cold feet.

But to create, I must de-cide. Cut away the excess. Choose one title from three options. Kill the weaker ones.

All this killing talk hurts. I chose creativity to soothe my heightened sensitivity. Not to blast off sentences written with utmost love!

But creativity is less carpentry, more sculpture. We don’t construct, we shape. We carve, chisel, and remove what doesn’t belong, revealing the form beneath.

Nothing is wasted. Erin Bow says it best:

The words we remove add depth to the words we retain. They are martyrs for clarity. Onion skins sacrificed for a lip smacking curry.

I must answer the call for creative destruction. Gentle but relentless shaping of my work so I can ship it.

Creative destruction brings lightness. Readers breathe easier. Writers stand taller. Finished work heals us.

Writing channels our inner child. Editing demands the adult. To clean up the mess, but retain the play. Make the creative process sustainable within the demands of adulthood. Creativity is progressive decluttering.

Creative destruction is not easy. So I make a game of it. Chop disclaimers and apologies. Trash bland poems. Eliminate tentative words. Shred dense chapters. Let relief wash over me.

Creativity is sculpture—not just because you sculpt, but because you are sculpted. The poem you write writes you. The essay you write writes you. The book you write writes you. Creativity reciprocates. By writing, revising, and publishing, you reinvent yourself.

The most profound creative destruction is of the ego. Our sense of right and wrong bends. Our shoulds shatter. For a sprout to rise, the soil has to break.

I ask myself, can I let nature pass through me? Can I unravel my self-doubt to make room for something luminous? It is not easy to say goodbye to our former selves. Yet what preserves their essence better than our art?

Watch what happens when artists practice creative destruction. We become unstoppable.

The Rhythm of our Stories workshop is back. Presented by Natasha Badhwar. Facilitated by me and Vimal Chitra. For writers, poets, and performers.