I take no credit for my writing. Of course, I put my name on my pieces, but I must admit the writing, when inspired, does not come from me. Maybe it is sent from some higher part of myself, some mythic muse, or some frustrated writer soul who had passed over long ago, only to live on earth vicariously though me, chatting me up with an incessant flow of words.
I can always tell when my writing is inspired. When I go to revise the original draft, sometimes I barely have to touch it at all, it's so right on. The overworked, over-polished and painfully massaged sections are those that came from my brain. Ah, the brain. In my opinion, it's given way to much credit in the creative process. In any of the arts, really.
There is a force far greater than that measly organ of intellect. Some call it flow, some call it inspiration. "Inspiration" as a word intrigues me. It comes from the Latin "inspirare," meaning "to breathe or blow into;" the Latin word "spirare" meaning "breath." As you can see, the word "spirit" comes from the same Latin root.
Which brings up the G word. God, I mean––however you define Him or Her or It. Some may know empirically, or simply believe, that inspiration is godly. I conclude from my own experience that writing is definitely magical, mysterious and multi-dimensional. The initial inspired writing does not arrive in a linear fashion, but all at once, more like an unlocked dam than a meandering river.
My creative writing process is to write as fast as I can, without stopping to consider grammar or spelling or even logic, for that matter. Then, later––could be hours, days, months––I revisit what I wrote. I am almost always surprised, even entertained. As I read, I'm often looking upward, saying to someone or something other than myself, "Oh, that was a good one."
As I said, I don't take credit for what flows through me. But I do acknowledge opening wide.