Full disclosure: I’m writing this on Saturday. Yeah, been having a rough week. I’ve been writing down old, terrible memories all week, and that was kind of a draining process. I am trying to write without the expectation that anyone will ever read them, but of course, that’s nearly impossible. Still, I’ve managed to write more rawly about this stuff than I have previously.
I think that writing about stuff is supposed to be cathartic but I’m not honestly sure if it is. Going back to those moments may be a mistake. Right now, I’m trying to write about when I was accidentally mean to a cat for five years and it’s such a humiliating story and definitely doesn’t put me in a light that I generally like people to see me in.
Also, you know that feeling like a million tiny mice running around the inside of your skin with their pokey little claws? That’s how I’m feeling a lot. I wonder if this is how Oscar Wilde felt writing The Picture of Dorian Gray. That story is very honest, and I think, at least a little bit autobiographical. How much damage do we do to each other and the world at large, that is unintentional?
Anyway, I was barrelling along with the story about the prophecy girl and her best friend, the unicorn, and that stopped a couple of weeks ago. I was also writing about a mute detective and haven’t been able to bring myself back to that. I hung out with my friend Robin and we did writing exercises but that felt forced and I wasn’t really into it.
Being creative is basically opening yourself up to the universe and letting whatever wants to, flow through you. It’s the ultimate in vulnerability, and I am currently struggling with that. I think, when it gets dark, my instinct is to curl up, like a porcupine, and wait until the cloud over my head has stopped hailing down icy shards of bad memories and self-hatred. That’s an instinct that makes sense, right?
I know that sometimes the answer to that is to open up, let whatever happens, happen. But I also know that that has backfired. Maybe during these times, it’s okay to emotionally hibernate until I feel functional again. The problem is that during these times I think that I’ll never be an author because I’ll never get my shit together enough to have any kind of consistency. I can go for years without writing anything creative.
That behavior isn’t going to give me the career that I want, and I desperately want to leave my job, which only adds more pressure for me to be writing the thing that’s going to rescue me from a life of accidentally crushing the hopes and dreams of people who don’t know better than to hope and dream in a world like this.
Alright, that’s another dark one. Here’s a gif of three kitty amigos:
I don’t have all of the answers, okay? Sometimes I think I do, and then I wait 30 seconds until the crippling doubt seizes up all of my muscles again…(By the way, Dan Fogelberg explains this human condition perfectly in his song, Part of the Plan.)