While I am still feeling the urgency of my last post here, I found myself receiving a reprieve of a different sort. I mentioned last time that getting my thoughts out here was therapeutic, as writing always seems to be for me. It's kind of a way of channeling my emotions, and therefore gaining me some modicum of release.
See, this past week has been extremely trying. The heartless and uncaring actions of certain parties brought me to a level of discontent and pure anger that I very rarely go to and, quite frankly, do not like reaching. In my early teens, I used to bottle up my emotions, letting everything build to a fever pitch, then they would explode in small fits of rage, which usually left holes in walls or items around the house broken. It was still rare, but very destructive when it occurred. I had yet to discover writing, and apparently art wasn't doing the trick in those isolated situations. I had no release, so I released it in the most base of ways.
I outgrew that quickly, and never looked back toward that type of behavior. I didn't care for myself at those times, as I reminded myself of my own childhood and those around me at the time carrying on in very similar ways. My entire life, I've strove to be the exact opposite, and those moments of weakness left me critical of myself.
When I discovered writing, it somehow helped me focus my thoughts, and I was able to get past fits of anger with just a few lines on a page. It didn't even need to be about the situations at hand, I just needed to write and it would wash away for a time. The creative arts tend to provide that release for some reason. Maybe it's the rush of creating, or the expulsion of energy that drives those emotions away, or rather helps you work through them, I don't know. I do know that art helped me through a lot, but eventually it wasn't good enough. Music and singing was always another strong means of expression for me, but you can't always belt out when you're frustrated. Writing, however, is silent and can be done just about anywhere.
This weekend, after the intense rush of anger and frustration that flooded me through the week, somehow I found inspiration to write. You may recall in previous posts how I've stated that I've had very little time to write, or had trouble finding the inspiration. For whatever reason, this weekend things clicked for me and I wrote, and wrote, and wrote.
I didn't have time to write - I do have a lot of work on my plate at the moment - but I just had to make the time, take the time this weekend, and I feel so much better having done so. Sometimes you just need to force yourself to break out of the monotony of the everyday life and do something for you. That's what I did.
I'd love to say I sat here and wrote half a novel, or something of that level of productivity, but that would be a lie. Instead, I channeled my writing in three different ways, giving me both expression and variety, which left me immensely satisfied.
First, an idea for a column on ComicRelated.com struck me. It was just something I had thought was a neat idea, but I wasn't sure I could pull it off. Before I knew it, I had written the introduction column to it, and planned out the format and schedule for it down to the day. More on that soon.
Second, I finally was able to gather my thoughts for a concept to a prose anthology I was invited to participate in months ago. It's called Singularity: The Rise of the Posthumans, and is a sort of futuristic steampunk superhero anthology. Being new to pulp-style writing and not having written prose in quite some time, I struggled with both a concept and wrapping my head around the method. I was a bit intimidated as my collaborators consist of many accomplished authors, and some of their concepts were similar to my initial idea. So for months, while dealing with all kinds of other distractions, I wrestled with the project. This weekend, it all finally broke and I churned out a complete bio/synopsis for my character and his story. I've yet to hear back from the project head, but even if he dislikes it, I'm proud of myself for getting to this point. Now, of course, I have to write a 6-10,000 word short story in a month! But that's okay, I'm up for the task.
I love to write, and at times I feel like I don't have time, or can't process my thoughts given my circumstances, workload and situations. This weekend, I proved to myself that I can - I just need to make or take the time to do so. If for nothing else, for my own sanity.
Did my writing this weekend solve all my problems? Of course not. But still, it gave me peace about them, at least for the time being. The writing bug has bitten me once more, and I want to give into the insatiable hunger that it has left me with. As I said, I love to write. And so I shall write.