Bob Dylan, the Duende, and creative magic

What explains the “magic” behind the creative process?

Yesterday I came across a 60 Minutes interview with Bob Dylan, where he talked about the inspiration for some of his earliest songs. He said,  “I don’t know how I got to write those songs. Those songs were almost magically written.”

Dylan seemed to suggest that his lyrics came from someplace beyond himself. Almost like they weren’t even his idea. “Try to sit down and write something like that,” he said of his 1965 song, It’s Alright, Ma (I’m Only Bleeding). 

The way Dylan described his creative process reminded me of the Duende: the mischievous imp that takes over your body and brain when you do creative things. The word has origins in Spanish folklore and has been used to describe the deep and passionate state seen in flamenco dancing.

Of course, there is no imp. Well, there’s probably no imp. Assuming an actual demon didn’t write some of my favorite songs, where does the Duende come from? What’s the “magic” part of the creative process, scientifically speaking? 

This experience of having little control over your own creativity is akin to the concept of “flow,” the mental state where you’re fixed on the task at hand, immersed in your work, and unaware of anything around you. It’s that same feeling of surrender. But flow seems to describe an effect of the Duende, rather than the Duende itself. 

When I think about the times I’ve felt the Duende, it’s often with poetry. Not that I’ve written much poetry. But when I do, certain phrases seem to materialize out of thin air. One morning, for example, I had been thinking about how it would be fun to write a poem about Houston, my hometown. That afternoon, I took my dog Murphy for a walk in our neighborhood when a phrase popped into my mind: “tin taste of Lone Star on my tongue.” It came out of nowhere and literally stopped me in my tracks because it was so confusing. I’m not saying it’s a mind-blowing line or even a very good line. The point is, I wasn’t actively trying to write a poem, but this random phrase popped into my head. Before I knew it, the next line materialized. And then the next. And then I had a poem.

What could explain this? A few things were happening at the time.

1. I was engaged in a mindless task. Walking my dog isn’t something I have to think about too much, so part of my mind was occupied with that while the rest of it was free to wander. It’s what neuroscientists call the Default Mode Network.

2. A few weeks prior, I signed up for a poetry class where I was exposed to loads of new poets and poetic forms. It was an explosion of inspiration. 

3. For this class, I had an assignment due later that week, and an idea of what I wanted to write, but I also had zero pressure to write anything. It’s not like I had money riding on it. It’s not like I could “fail” the class if I didn’t turn in a poem. There was no pressure to create, just a prompt. I didn’t have to try, so there was no inner voice present. No inner editor telling me whether the line was good or bad, or that it wouldn’t work because of XYZ, or that it might work better if I did ABC.

Those three things  — the mind wandering, the prompt, the inspiration  — seemed to create an ideal environment for the Duende. I’m not suggesting this as some sort of recipe for accessing magic, but in that state, my demon felt comfortable showing up, albeit briefly. It was like I had completely disengaged from the logical side of my brain, which, of course, isn’t possible for very long, which is maybe why the Duende feels so uncontrollable and fleeting.

Of course, I’m no Bob Dylan, but I find it such a hopeful thought that the same “magic” that strikes someone like him could hit any of us. And that’s what I love most about the Duende. It reminds us that creativity isn’t limited to a select few brilliant minds. It’s not some unattainable skill only reserved for some, but a bit of magic that can visit any of us if we can surrender to it.

 — Kristin

P.S. A bit of music history: In 1965, Paul Simon wrote a song called A Simple Desultory Philippic. The song was meant to be a satire of Bob Dylan for abandoning his folk roots. I guess you’d call it a diss track. The two allegedly feuded after an awkward encounter at a folk performance in Greenwich Village. I like the song, partly because it’s kinda weird, but also because a good reminder that, no matter how magical your work, at least one person will always hate it. Might as well do it anyway.

Untranslatable words you might enjoy

Sprezzatura: The art of hiding art

Tarab: The transcendent power of music

From the archives

How to Be Creative When Your Ancestors Are Watching (Electric Literature)

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