CREATIVE DRIVE

The newsletter for people who want to keep going

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NUMBER 44

You can suffer burnout, or you can flame out. What'll it be?

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A WRITER OR ANY CREATIVE person can suffer the symptoms of exhaustion, but that shouldn't be blamed on the work of writing. Mental energy fluctuates along with one's physical state. If you were to compete in a mile run, and if you were to give it your all, at some point in the race your supply of oxygen would be unable to meet the demand. Your muscles would experience fatigue due to the buildup of lactic acid, and you'd long for the finish line. It comes down to conditioning, which is a combination of strength and endurance. Oxygen is the fuel you consume during that race, so the contest is as much you against you as against the other runners. Well, guess what: The brain needs oxygen too. It's the physical engine of your will and perseverance, and it can fatigue right along with the body.

As with a race, the creative endeavor requires a healthy, well-nourished body and a strong but rested you. In the absence of either, the task will become a slog. In that state even the most cherished but reliable thing–such as the sunrise that follows a sleepless night–can seem immeasurably distant. ?With that mindset, sleep starts to sound pretty good. Yeah, a little nap would be nice . . . .

Oh, damn! What time is it!? You overslept, and the project is due in just a few minutes!

The Sled Race of Your Mind

A tedious preoccupation with one's creative goal can sap energy much the way that physical exertion can. It's nothing to worry about, though, because the cause can be avoided. If your writing or other creative work is solid to begin with–if your concept offers some message of consolation for this often challenging life–the words at your disposal can be arranged to convey that message. However, if your writing is poor and you feel starved for any phrase that might spur inspiration, it's time to gather new skills and insight. After all, writing isn't a fool's work. It's hard, but difficulty is the price of creative freedom. A creative person of true skill will carry on joyfully if not somewhat haphazardly, knowing the glorious goal is just steps away. An artist will burn out only when the candle of life no longer holds a flame.

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My wife and I had been busy in the wilds of Tokyo for several months, at which point we decided to use some of the vacation time accorded by my employer. It wasn't a desire to escape because, obviously, Tokyo is mega-fun for lovers and other foreigners. The desire to travel outward from the city embodied a wish to see more of what Japan is: a very old, extremely rich culture amid a largely pristine environment. The main island, Honshu, has three plains, each of which is occupied by a metropolis. The remainder is mountainous and prone to very dense coverage. In fact, my friend and colleague Watanabe-san said the mountain flanks and ravines were generally clad in spiky, spiny plants. He said they were full of snakes, spiders and other creepy things.

Head for the Hills

Well, that sounded good to us. So, we did some hunting and found there was a hotel in the forest out near Lake Ashi and the famous Red Gate, within close view of Mt. Fuji. We reserved a room for three nights, and to get there we bought passes for the storied Romance Train: a quaint little choo-choo that winds through hills and mountain passes as it leaves urban Tokyo.

Hotel Fujiya was roughly two hours from the station, and we loved every minute of the trip. There was significant fog in the area that day, but the Romance Train was cozy and sparkling clean. Eventually we reached our stop, and from there we took a taxi to the hotel. Now, if you're thinking of a flat-roofed motel next to a Cracker Barrel restaurant, forget it. If you're thinking of the Hotel St. Francis in downtown San Francisco, you're wrong. The Fujiya is a grand old wooden structure in the European style, which it happily emulates.

It was the mid-1800s, and Sennosuke Yamaguchi, a young man from the mountains of Hakone (Ha-KOHN-eh), Japan, was visiting the harbor, where he saw ships coming to port. The sight was so enthralling that he decided to get a place onboard and go wherever it took him. That's exactly what happened. The young man traveled the world as a working passenger of sorts, and the attractions of European capitals inspired his imagination.

Eventually the young man came home, but he didn't come alone. He brought a couple of cows, some flour and other things. His father asked, "What does one do with these cows?" "Oh, they give milk," the son said. "We can also make butter, which is wonderful on bread." The father asked, "What is bread?" These things were new to the parents of the intrepid young man.

A plan soon evolved: a design for a hotel in the grand European style. The parents assured their son that no one would want to brave a trip through the mountains just to stay in a big wooden building, but the son was not to be dissuaded. He made things happen. He made a LOT happen, and in time Hotel Fujiya rose from its foundation walls on a forested slope. There was a grand dining room with an impressively high ceiling, and in the basement there was a huge swimming pool full of water from the local hot spring. The guestrooms were given the names of beloved flowers, and . . .

Fire! Fire!

It had to happen. Stately Hotel Fujiya–the only resort of its kind in Japan–was severely damaged in a blaze. Was everything lost, though? Certainly it wasn't, at least to the young man and his family. The place had become a haven for city-weary people from Tokyo and Osaka, so of course it had to continue the tradition it had created. Eventually the Fujiya rose again, and that beautiful structure, many decades later, was the one we saw.

I'll tell you a secret: Mary and I were escorted to the Iris room, a lovely setting at the end of a long hallway. It had impressive amenities, including a refrigerator and a cushy bed. Just across the hall was the Chrysanthemum room, a cedar-paneled suite. The door was left open, and our hostess said it was famed as the boyhood retreat of the Emperor. Well, that was understandable. There were magnificent views through expansive windows on two sides, and the sense of peace was palpable.

Dinner was incredible, but evidently the tourist season hadn't begun because there were only two other couples in that vast dining room, and we were told they weren't staying in the hotel. So, as was evident for the rest of our stay, we were the only guests. Isn't travel the most wonderful thing!

We returned to our room appropriately satiated and somewhat tired. I couldn't take my eyes of that room across the hall, though. Again and again I went to look, and through those huge panes I could see a billion stars as they hovered above the mountain silhouette. "I'm going in there," I said. "Really!?" Mary asked with concern. "Well, be quiet . . . and don't break anything!" I snuck in, moving as gently as I could. I just wanted to experience that view of the stars and savor, for a moment, the quietude of a cedar-paneled room.

I didn't stay long. After all, I wasn't a creep. I had respect for my surroundings. (Gosh! What did you expect!?)

Astounding Greatness

Morning arrived, and we went for a swim in the Olympic-sized mineral bath. Aah! Then we dressed for breakfast in the dining room, which wore the soft glow of early daylight. We took relaxing walks around the premises, and then we boarded the aerial tram for a ride to Lake Ashi. Go ahead, look it up. Ashinoko is one of the world's most stunning places. On one side is the famed Avenue of Chrysanthemums, which are gigantic cedar trees. From there, the magnificent Red Gate (a torii) rises out of the water, and to the west one can see the upper half of Fujisan. The whole thing was just so awesome!

The following day brought a surprising lesson, and it's one I'm particularly eager to share with you:

The sky was royal blue as we boarded the tram, this time for a short trip in the opposite direction. Our destination was the Hakone Open-Air Museum, a facility on the mountain flank not far from Hotel Fujiya. We stepped off the tram and were soon surrounded by works of art. There was even an installation dedicated to Joan Miro! We toured the grounds, and at each stop we saw something new. Everything gleamed amid that pure sunlight. Incredible!

We entered the museum structure, a two-story modernistic edifice in stark white. It was chock full of artwork! Pieces large, medium, small and even tiny lined the walls, thoughtfully arranged in well-lit display cases. The guide said the museum had an arrangement with the Picasso estate whereby it could exhibit works on a seasonal basis. That meant there was even more. The collection we saw was only a portion of one man's creative output!

Casting a Light

I thought about our visit often during the months after our return to California. Mary and I would visit my parents, who were always eager to hear more about our year in Japan. On one such visit I described the museum and the incredible range of art it housed. I said it didn't seem to matter whether a given piece was finished but that it was attempted; that it was engaged by the artist's mind and hands.

"Well, that's because Picasso's artistic vision was so broad and deep that he had to race just to keep up." My mother, an art historian whose own works with charcoal and silverpoint were worthy of a museum, had the right view. "He didn't allow himself to be hampered by perfectionism, although at heart he was a perfectionist. For him, there was no choice but to keep producing what his mind conceived."

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Always Other Possibilities

Music has its share of like-minded artists. Consider the case of Mr. Bill Nelson, a Yorkshireman who gained fame in the Seventies with his band Be-bop Deluxe. An elegantly fluid guitarist since boyhood, he also had a true concert-tenor voice and a distinctly literate lyrical perspective. He was so proficient, though, that he soon grew tired of the Be-bop deal and went solo. He met a Japanese woman named Emiko Takahashi, whereupon he promised to write a hundred songs as the way to win her heart. He did just that. In fact, Bill Nelson has produced more than a hundred complete albums, each of which conveys his musical signature and neo-Space Age esthetic. As with Picasso, the journey is an endless road and there's no point in stopping.

I had the privilege of interviewing Bill Nelson in early 1985. It the morning after his performance at the Wilshire Theater in L.A. My journalist brother and I went to the Holiday Inn on Sunset Boulevard and met Bill in his suite. The guy had been a hero of mine for years. I'd slavishly cloned his guitar style and vocal approach, right down to the accent, but as always the interview wasn't about me. It was about the man himself, and I'll tell you this: The music he'd performed was entirely his, and the band had been assembled for that purpose. The lighting, the staging and everything else came from the mind of this singular little person. It was the morning after what was most certainly a long night. Was he tired? It's possible. Did he look like some brain-fried itinerant? No way. In fact, he was the most gracious, engaging and charming person I could possibly have met. It was the loveliest interview session of all time. Once John and I were back in the parking lot on our way to the car, he said, "Damn! Is that guy great or what!?"

Certainly a serious case of burnout would've been understood, but there was nothing of the kind.

Never a Conclusion

What do we have in our case against burnout? We have three sterling examples of discipline and an insistently forward perspective, courtesy of the following:

- Sennosuke Yamaguchi, founder of Hotel Fujiya in Hakone, Japan

- Pablo Picasso, a talent so fierce that he'll forever be known by a single name

- Bill Nelson, multi-instrumental extraordinaire and one of music's most prolific artists

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Look at those names. Is the word "quitter" anywhere in sight? It isn't. Amid the presence of any such person, a quitter would cower in self-pity.

Burnout, like distraction and writer's block, is a fabrication. Say you're tired and that you need some rest, but don't ever quit. Don't stop till you yank the bell cord at Heaven's gate and wait for some winged attendant to welcome you.

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I hope you enjoyed this issue of CREATIVE DRIVE. I'll see you next time.

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? Copyright 2024 by Lawrence Payne. No part of this publication may be reproduced, translated or distributed without permission from the author.

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