I’ve always heard that writing- or any form of creativity, is a gift, something that we are bestowed with, and ought to be grateful for. This gift is to be honed, lest we break some biblical code, and our use of it is to fulfill some obscure prophecy.
I can’t personally agree to that, though, and I have to be as honest as I can on the topic: Writing- my Great Love, has hardly fulfilled me in life. In fact, writing has been a Royal Bitch, nagging at me when she knew I couldn’t perform, mocking me at her refusal to do her part. I have been hurt by her, I have been lied to by her, I have been scarred by her. I am constantly forced to accept blame, bowing down to her in submission, and by way of punishment, lashing myself at losing my battle with her yet again.
“How can I be held responsible for your lack of doing?” She asks, pointing a long, accusing finger at me, her vainglorious scapegoat.
“You are the problem here, not me!” She booms, turning away, refusing to cooperate, and leaving me feeling hurt once more by her apathy.
The need to be creative has long been like an eager hangnail, annoying and painful in it’s quest to be ripped off at it’s root, and throbbing in the satiation of follow through. Gnawing at the loose skin hurts as much as it helps, as does my need to write.
Not surprisingly, I have felt less faith in my own creations than criticism, and my need for any related positive reinforcement whatsoever is embarrassingly obvious- most of all to myself. Still, in defense of my insecurities, I find writing to be so wholly a piece of me, that offering it to others to observe and critique- hopefully less than they approve, can be overwhelmingly difficult. I have stripped myself nude, and exposed flickers of new life, stemming from a raw energy in the depths of my brain. A synapse sparks, orgasmic and sticky, and my thoughts begin to form, at first as single words, cocooned in singularity, but aching for a family. Very soon words, descript and accurate, come tumbling from my brain, and jet to the tips of my fingers in a rush, electricity jolting me up with a start, as my hands begin working away at the keyboard, happily popping out embryonic words searching for a father, a mother, and weaving them, one with the other, to create long, lush descriptive, ancestral sentences. Soon, the family grows into paragraphs. Maybe one day, the offspring will develop into chapters.
Until that day, I’ll continue to apply ass to chair diligently, and, in an effort to keep peace with the Bitch, I’ll write- one word at a time, pulling each word-child of mine close to me as I shape and chisel them to their full potential. I expect my relationship with the Bitch to be at least amicable one day- perhaps even sincere, and I anticipate that my commitment to do will supersede my fear of it.
And 500+ words later, looks like I’m doing alright so far.