Writer's Angst... or something.
I wanted to write again, it crept into my subconscious and stuck-- That ridiculous, creative desire. Oh, how I love it and how I hate it.
Sometimes it defines me, and I am half-blindly going through the motions in life, just trying to use stronger verbs to abolish my adverbs, because adverbs are so purple and I have a thing for purple-prose.
I wanted to write again; sometimes my mind is so full of the desire that it hurts. I read what I have written and I hate it; I read the writing of other’s and I hate myself. I want… and the wanting hurts.
Part of this is because of the depression. Actually, maybe all blame belongs to the depression, because I can’t write without that beleaguered part of my mind. Where have I been during all of these anti-depressant -saturated years of wasted time, when I could have been writing? I don’t know how I filled the time, because, I never wanted to write. I didn’t think about it, and it never hurt. When my brain chemistry was normal that thought didn’t seem to bother me; the reminder of that bothers me.
If I need the pull of anxiety to make me want to be creative, then I will be anxious. I will ache that dull heady ache, that pushes and pulls like the tides. I will feel helpless and hurt. I will read what I have written and hate it and love it and hate that I love it and want to improve. I will not be boring.
I wanted to write again, despite knowing what that feeling meant, despite knowing the desperate ache that came with it, despite writing not really easing that ache for long, but only really while I am writing and never in the in-between times.
I wanted to write again… and I did, and it hurts like waking up hung-over. I am sober, I am groggy, and I have unanswered questions.
Sometimes it defines me, and I am half-blindly going through the motions in life, just trying to use stronger verbs to abolish my adverbs, because adverbs are so purple and I have a thing for purple-prose.
I wanted to write again; sometimes my mind is so full of the desire that it hurts. I read what I have written and I hate it; I read the writing of other’s and I hate myself. I want… and the wanting hurts.
Part of this is because of the depression. Actually, maybe all blame belongs to the depression, because I can’t write without that beleaguered part of my mind. Where have I been during all of these anti-depressant -saturated years of wasted time, when I could have been writing? I don’t know how I filled the time, because, I never wanted to write. I didn’t think about it, and it never hurt. When my brain chemistry was normal that thought didn’t seem to bother me; the reminder of that bothers me.
If I need the pull of anxiety to make me want to be creative, then I will be anxious. I will ache that dull heady ache, that pushes and pulls like the tides. I will feel helpless and hurt. I will read what I have written and hate it and love it and hate that I love it and want to improve. I will not be boring.
I wanted to write again, despite knowing what that feeling meant, despite knowing the desperate ache that came with it, despite writing not really easing that ache for long, but only really while I am writing and never in the in-between times.
I wanted to write again… and I did, and it hurts like waking up hung-over. I am sober, I am groggy, and I have unanswered questions.