Do not adjust your set: I am going insane

life

Entry posted by MagitekAngel August 26, 2009

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Alright, so not really. But on days like this, it certainly feels like it.

I am a writer by nature and by aspiration. I accept that these days on the internet that isn't saying much at all; in fact, it may actually be saying less than nothing. But that is what I am. A world builder; a voyager to lands only I can see. And thus far, I remain the only one that can see them, because I can't find the words as of late.

When I was a younger, more naive person, the words came far easier, because I wasn't worried about how good they were, or if they were even the right words at all. I wasn't worried about whether I was ripping someone else off. And above all, I wasn't worried about whether or not I was wasting my life; whether I would amount to anything with my simple craft.

Most of the time, rather than dealing with the uncertainties and what-ifs, I just push them from my head. But at the same time, I push out the writing too, and go for long periods of time without doing any productive work at all. I started this blog because the unconscious part of me knew I needed the practice badly, but the conscious part of me was still too afraid to peer within myself and go back to the places I have envisioned.

Today is one of the days that I have as a direct consequence of my own literary constipation. The stories demand to be told. As dearly as I want to tell them, I haven't figured out the right words to do it yet, but the stories themselves couldn't care less. On days like this, they rattle the bars, fight with each other, and fight with me to be let out. I might sit down and type at that point, and I might get a few words down. A few pages if I'm really on a roll. But most of the time, when I come back to it a day or so later, I hate what I've written. It's a vicious cycle.

I took a Fiction Workshop class last semester, thinking that being in regular attendance of a forum of like-minded peers would simultaneously encourage and force me to be more productive. I was not wrong, and in time, I came to be regarded as a class leader for my enthusiasm, my discussion, and my raw talent. I will come out and say it: when I chock back my whining and insecurity, I am a talented writer. I enjoyed the class, but when it came to a close my motivation to keep producing evaporated. I haven't written anything all summer, but the stories are still churning, still turning. Today they scream to be let out.

I can't keep them chained up forever. Either I'll let them out, or they will break free of their own accord, and who knows what will happen then.