Quite a few writers I like seem to be characters in their own right. Alan Moore is a curmudgeonly wizard. Hunter S. Thompson was a wild, untamable mutant. Grant Morrison, another comic writer, is a bald psychedelic adventurer because he wrote about a bald psychedelic adventurer.
William S. Burroughs, Anais Nin, Anne Rice; it goes on and on and on. These writers are all eccentrics. Many got weirder after they got famous, but there exists in all these people I mentioned a spark of the bizarre.
Stephen King (and plenty of others) write about how all writers need a place of their own, assembled just so. Maybe you need a costume, too, assembled just so.
A few weeks ago in New Orleans, I was talking about changing up my look with a friend of mine who happens to have a good one. I have slipped into unkemptness, and considered just getting a haircut and a new wardrobe from J. Crew, something to blend in. He told me I’d always look like I was wearing a costume, no matter what I had on. This is probably true.
So what sort of costume? Can this be a magical act of intention? Will it spur creativity? I know that looking a certain way can open and shut doors, which can open and shut experiences. Maybe I’ll just start with white t-shirts instead of black. Kind of like a Gandalf costume change.