My take on Creativity.
Let us begin by clearing the air of the cloying incense of romanticism. The notion of creativity as a visit from some ethereal muse, a divine lightning strike that illuminates the waiting, passive vessel of the artist, is a fiction of the most saccharine and debilitating sort. It is a comforting bedtime story for the intellectually lazy and a standing alibi for the perpetually unproductive. The mind is not an empty stage awaiting a visitation from the gods. It is a loom, and it weaves, with tireless and often frustrating application, from the threads of experience it has been given. It cannot, and this is the first and most crucial point, make something from nothing. The entire enterprise of human thought is built upon the accumulated rubble of what has been thought and said before. To believe otherwise is to indulge in a solipsism of the most childish and arrogant variety. Creativity, therefore, is not an act of conjuring. It is an act of synthesis. ...