I’d always seen creativity as a finite resource.  Something with limits.  Something you use up, like gas in a tank—except that once it’s been consumed, you can’t easily replenish your supply. There aren’t any fuel tanks of creativity dotted along the highway to fill up at when you’re running low. You either have it or you don’t.

Commodifying creativity has been problematic for me.  My “creative spurts” tend to be accompanied by a sense of panic, because I never know how long the creativity will linger for this time—maybe the day if I’m lucky, maybe the hour.  I’d exhaust myself trying to make the most of it while I was on a roll, because I figured my crash was bound to come at any minute.