Writing and Sex

I caught you with the title of this one, didn't I? Honestly, it's not what you think...

I've started writing short stories again, and so far I've come up with two solid pieces in the last month and a half or so. I'm ready to start working on a new one, but I've come up against an inspiration wall. The first piece I created recently was more of an exercise than anything - I took one of my favorite songs and made the story of the lyrics into a short story - and while it is a solid piece, I'm not completely thrilled with the result. It feels flat, somehow. It might just feel that way to me because it wasn't wholly a concept that belonged to me and my imagination. The second piece I was much more pleased with; it was an entirely original work. I want to find something to spark that creativity again, because I've rediscovered the immense pleasure of fictional creation.

When the muse has hold of me and is flowing freely, there's a feeling of being almost out of control, right up on the threshold of something that's very nearly too large to hold onto. I feel like I'm surfing this enormous wave of creative energy and using its kinetic power to shape and mold something into life. It's an amazing feeling; there are so many metaphors that come close to it, but I really wonder if the act of creation itself is something beyond description, something completely sublime. I guess this is the way of creation for all artists regardless of their medium - paint or music or dance or something less "art-y" like carpentry, numerology, birdwatching, etc. - anything that can inspire in its wielder that rushing feeling of being caught up in something larger than you, something you can momentarily control. (Okay, maybe not birdwatching.) Maybe this is the reason that sex is such a powerful thing for so many of us - at its very core it is an act of creation; whether it is creating a life or just a bond between people that is so moving, so inspiring and so overwhelming that it can never be easily described, just likened to by so many metaphors but it sublimity never really touched on.

Do I liken the act of good writing to the act of good sex? The intoxication of fictional creation, the power of people bonding together in the most personal way possible? I can see it. Hell yeah.