Every writer, hell, everyone has had that I am ready to give up crisis, the delete everything, burn those old
notebooks crisis. I remember when writing used to be fun. Where word count
and mass consumption weren’t the reason to write, but the enjoyment of a tale
told. Maybe it was a quote that I saw floating around, but you don’t write for
the money, you have to write for the love of it. My love is fading and as much
as I hate the silence of my head, my voices rendered speechless, writer’s block
cleaving their tongues out, I can’t force myself to write.
There are no words.
No voices.
No ideas.
My head is a void and when that happens, there’s nothing to
distract me from playing the what-if
game. All my mistakes playing in surround sound, that nagging inner voice the
one gagged and stuffed into a closet by the characters I created escaping to wreak havoc.
Okay, so, maybe I have a bit of a defense mechanism, an
escape from reality. It’s a beautiful thing really, no need for those little
drugs to make me feel all tingly. I just have the voices in my head; the sheer
number would make Sybil herself jealous. Although, they are no longer there, my
faithful imaginary friends have jumped a freighter for some unknown port and
left me behind with all my insecurities, not to mention my inferiority complex
that would make an atomic mushroom cloud miniscule in comparison.
To be honest, I don’t know where it came from. I write to
keep myself sane, putting all my anger and my depression onto pages of
well-worn notebooks or into Word (Affectionately known as my Bitch Mistress). Erotica,
it’s what I started out writing for people to read and leaving my darker things
for myself, sort of like a journal told from an alter-ego. I love writing
Erotica, don’t get me wrong about that, it’s fun, but ultimately it isn’t what
I want to write or more importantly what I want to be known for.
That wasn’t a dig at Erotica, I assure you, but I have
wanted to be a writer since the age of eight, as I grew older, I discovered
books. Steinbeck, Hemingway, Lawrence, Trumbo, Heller, Dante, Plath, Wharton and
so many more that I could list. That was what I wanted, maybe needed is more
apt a term. Not really the next great American writer that is rare, but a
novelist; one that could write a book to move the masses.
My latest WIP (Work in Progress) is that novel, the one my
soul longs to write. It’s not sunshine and roses, not a guaranteed happy
conclusion and I am more than thrilled with that. Life isn’t about the
happily-ever-after; it’s about the journey to what may become that beautiful
ending. Alas, what my soul and head are agreeing on are two completely separate
issues, my soul is screaming to write, to finish, but my head is screaming no.
Is it a fear of failure, of falling on my face? I would say yes. I am
completely out of my comfort zone. Attempting to lay my soul out for everyone
to read and judge.
Do I persevere? Take my Muse in hand, and make her see whom
the boss is or just lie down, and let my dream pass? Only time will tell, will
these few days I have taken to clear my head be enough or shall weeks, months
pass before I can feel normal again? Again, only time will tell and I hope the
old adage is true, that time heals all wounds.
