I haven’t been writing recently. Wow, it feels good to say that. It’s a fact, though.
I have stories in my head, and they’re swirling around, and begging to be written down, but I just can’t seem to find the right words. Blog posts, too, although the feeling’s not exactly the same. You don’t know this, but I do, and it’s kind of been eating away at me: the last three posts I published were written somewhere in April or May. It’s very far from May, now.
It isn’t like I’ve been bored at all; I’ve had things to do during the summer and books to read and White Collar to binge-watch… but it’s a different feeling than writing. Books and TV shows, I see them the same way (except TV shows may burn your eyes out and books… also might, but you have to read more of them for that to happen): they’re both instant gratification. With writing, you really have to work towards it.
And maybe that’s why I haven’t been able to write. I haven’t had to work towards it. I haven’t had to work too hard towards anything since the school year ended on June 5th, and now maybe I have homework, but I have three months to do it and it involves growing plants, which isn’t much work anyways, and besides, my brain tells me, if you need to memorize stuff for tests it’s best to wait until mid-July, so you can remember it better.
I miss the stress. I miss the tests. I miss the anxiety. Maybe I didn’t enjoy that little tug in my chest of
didifaildidifaildidifailihopeididntfailpleasedontletmefailgoodiprobablydidntfailbutwhatifidid. But it’s an odd part of me that I can never seem to shake.
I tried to force some stories out, but they just seemed to stew, and every time I look back over what I’ve written, I’m not proud of it, like the words are perfect in my head but I just can’t bear to see them any other way on paper. The words disappear before I can ever write them down. And part of me is okay with that, with me waiting and hibernating until the stories are ready to be let out.
But there is still a burning desire to write, something that makes me twinge shamefully when I think of the words or the people behind them. People who sometimes seem so real it’s odd thinking the rest of the world will think they came from my head. (They didn’t, DUH. They’re actually aliens on another planet who have made their way into my head in their ethereal form and are begging me to write their stories.)
I want to write. No, that is wrong.
I need to write. That sounds better. I need to write.
SO MUCH TO WRITE. Inexplicable, crazy, barely-staying-sane need to write.
I need to write. (That is what it feels like in my head.)
Or I may go crazy with all these stories in my head. But how to get them out?
(And all this word-ing, it has me thinking:
Maybe writing is what keeps me sane.)
A question sometimes drives me hazy: am I or the others crazy?
— Albert Einstein (and apparently now me when I think of writing)