So lately I have not written. In fact I had been half heartedly writing up until October when I just finally gave up. Ironically, when I was a kid, I used to wish I wasn't a writer. I'd wish that my head wasn't full of colourful characters and stories, because it made me less "normal". All the other kids wanted to play outside and go to parties and whatever else it was other kids did. What I wanted to do was finish that story about a boy who had a robot as his best friend. Or that one about a little girl who had everything in the world she could wish for except for someone who could really understand her, that is until she met a tiny yellow elephant. No one said I was the greatest of writers... and to be frank, lately I'm not.
Knowing that to not write was my childhood desire, you'd think that accomplishing that state in my life I would be happy. In fact it has had quite the opposite effect. I just constantly worried. What if the stories aren't there any more? What if because of everything else in my life that made me tired and lazy when it came to writing had finally killed off all my characters? Even the tiny elephant? And what about Charles the Monkey Prince? And Filbert Filigree Spinner, who would finish his story?
And tonight I realised one thing. Life has kept me from writing for months. I've been ill and tired and overworked and I've had way too many "actually pay the bills and need to be done" jobs and activities to do that when I do have free time I'm a zombie. So I watch TV for a couple hours to unwind, do some sketching and go to bed, then start the whole process back up in the morning. And the worst thing is, these life things that are keeping me from writing are not letting up, and they need my time, and they're exhausting. So my chances of writing again are slim, for the time being. Though I should try harder, maybe 8 cups of coffee? No sleep? Maybe if I was still 17. But I must reach some form of solution to this problem. And soon. I have scripts to write and a fantasy novel to finish, and a short story about some pirates and a pirate novel and as you can see the ideas are still there, they're just not getting written...
Part of me was surprised to discover that writing has become such an intrinsic part of my character, my personality, of who I am and how I identify myself, that I can no longer part with it. I can't do without writing. I have been struggling along, but words are my air. The written word is such a passion within me that almost my every thought is about creating tiny worlds of words of my own and sharing them with others.
When I was a teen a teacher suspected I might have a talent or affinity for writing. She told me to go home and write, without thinking of the words, or of making them into actual sentences, but just to write whatever came to mind as it came. And when a thought changed from one thing to another, when it transformed as they often do in our minds, it was transcribed onto paper. To date that was the most satisfying piece of writing I have ever done, and the one I've been praised for the most. So with her in mind tonight I sat to do some automatic writing. Here's what came out of the first short burst.
"There’s a silence. A silence building up inside of me. It’s filling a place that once housed joy and creative drive. And now that home is filled with silence. Empty nothingness. No, not empty. Full. Full to the brim. With silence.
Echoes of my stories, of my writing, dance far away. I cannot touch them, cannot grasp a hold of their feathered tails. Whereas they used to float and fly freely inside my mind, now their evade me. They’ve escaped, through ears and eyes and nose. Maybe I should have left some bird seed around.
I’ve decided to hunt down the silence. To pump it full of noise, cheerful laughter, inappropriate burps and trumps. Cats yowling, birds chirping. The sound of a squeaky window cleaner. A cold sea wind, gushing and pummelling the silence away to dust. Dust that should have never been allowed to settle. Dust that happened because I got lazy, complacent.
I’ll make it golden dust, floating in a sun beam on a quiet afternoon. Children’s laughter floating in through a window, clinging to the curtains, making them dance with a soft content joy. I’ll make it dust that erupts from an old treasure book, hidden stories inside waiting to be read, discovered on a top shelf in a family library. I’ll make it fairy dust."