As a fiction writer, I've been fascinated for years with the question of where creativity comes from. While some of the ideas that have inspired my writing come from readily identifiable sources, a lot of my stories had their genesis in the mysterious "it just popped into my head" phenomenon. I've talked to a lot of writers about this, and many of them have had the experience of feeling as if their inspiration came, literally, from outside of their own minds.
And like many writers (and artists and musicians) I have had serious dry spells, when the inspiration simply didn't want to come. I keep writing through those -- I've found that the best way to push through writer's block is to throw some discipline at it -- but I won't say that what I produce during those times has much of the spark I look for when I critique my own work. The best writing comes during times when the ideas leap into my mind unannounced, from heaven-only-knows-where.
This new study indicates that what I may be missing in my life is a good dose of plain, old-fashioned misery.
Entitled "How Are You, My Dearest Mozart? Well-being and Creativity of Three Famous Composers Based on their Letters," the paper published this week in the Review of Economics and Statistics by economist and statistician Karol Jan Borowiecki of the University of Southern Denmark analyzes the letters and diaries of Wolfgang Amadeus Mozart, Ludwig van Beethoven, and Franz Liszt, and attempts to correlate the use of words indicating level of well-being with their productivity.
Not only their productivity in quantity, but in quality. He looked at the timing of composition of works that "made a significant contribution to the classical canon," not just how many compositions they'd been able to churn out per month. And the highest productivity, both in quality and quantity, came during the times these composers were most likely to use words like "sadness," "hurt," "grief," and "nervous."
"An increase in negative emotions by about 36.7 percent inspires one additional important composition the following year," Borowiecki writes. "Since depression is strongly related to sadness, and is sometimes even defined as a state of chronic sadness, this result comes very close to previous claims made by psychologists that depression leads to increased creativity."
Factors that tended to decrease creative output were being in a happy marriage and finding a permanent position with its attendant job security.
Don't tell him to cheer up -- maybe he's working on a masterpiece. [image courtesy of the Wikimedia Commons]
Like a cat, or something.
As interesting as this study is, I'm not sure that's the approach, frankly. All of us creative types see ebbs and flows of our output, and the fact that the last few weeks have been pretty serious low tide shouldn't concern me. Nor, I think, should it make me seek out ways to be more miserable. It might be that the dark side of human existence can generate beautiful works of art, writing, or music -- listen to the second movement of Beethoven's Pathetique Sonata for a wonderful example of heart-wringing pathos -- but without joy as an inspiration, we'd never have had the "Bergamasca" from Ottorino Respighi's Ancient Airs and Dances, my vote for one of the most purely exuberant moments in all of classical music.
So it's a mixed bag, as you might expect. The most creative minds weave the entirety of human experience into their works, and draw on all aspects of emotion to color what they create. We may be no closer to understanding where creativity itself comes from, but if we can take our pain and sometimes distill it into something beautiful, at least it gives us something to carry us forward when we're at our lowest points.