Friday, June 09, 2006

That Writin' Feeling

I think I'm starting to get back that writin' feeling...cause it was gone, gone gone...whoooaaaa...sorry. But it was gone, and I couldn't put my finger on what exactly had gone, what had happened to it, or how to get it back. But now that it is coming back, I realize exactly what it is that was missing.

It was that feeling of going through your day while your mind is writing about going through your day. She paced quickly back and forth across the wooden floor, distracted, I think as I walk through my kitchen. I step on a piece of tape that I step on every day and haven't picked up yet. She steps over the same piece of tape that's been there for weeks, but she still hasn't picked it up yet. Why? What purpose is it serving? She hates stepping on it. It's still a little sticky, and every time she tramples it, she has an instant of panic where she imagines she's just squished a roach. And she HATES roaches. I don't know if this is normal or not. I'm going to guess "not." But it's how my mind works when I write. Everything can be told, every little thought or action.

Another thing that's come back is my ability to see something interesting, imagine something about it, and immediately put that situation/thing/person into a story I'm writing, or imagine a new story just for that one thing. This hasn't come back with the force that it used to exist when I was a lot younger. When I was about jr. high age, I did this with EVERYTHING. In a way, it's like I wasn't really experiencing life, I was experiencing what I imagined everything could be. This is the singular feeling that convinced me I was crazy during my teen years. I was SURE I was. I knew I'd end up living somewhere remote, creating masterpieces (at least one) until the day my madness forced me over the edge of a cliff or something. I think I've mentioned this before. After all, all the greats were driven to suicide by their madness. Sylvia Plath. Virginia Woolf. More that just aren't on the top of my head right now. So for awhile, I was happy about this craziness, and I accepted my fate. Then I got a little older, and I didn't want to be crazy, and I wanted to drink and have boyfriends and hang out with my friends and go shopping. So I put my reality changing imaginings on hold and pursued a "normal" life. What I'm finally realizing now, is that this isn't madness. It's what makes me able to write. I go mad when I turn it off and can't write.

Or I really am crazy. That's a possibilty too. Stay tuned and see if she loses it!

The point is, it feels like something's coming back that's just been gone for awhile. I'm starting to feel more like myself. If I experience a painful situation, I can write about it. Not here, of course. This is the internet, people. When I write, I keep that shit under lock and key. Diary, fiction, poetry, whatever. Maybe when I die my great grandchildren will find all my stuff and cull one or two interesting things out of there and I'll be published posthumously. But I digress. I've been hesitant to write about my writing coming back, because other than it sounding ridiculous, I was afraid to jinx it. But I think writing in this blog helps me sort stuff out and see where I'm going, what I'm doing.

I also just started reading my third book. I'll tell you about that next time, because I don't have it with me and I can't remember the author's name. But it totally kicks ass.


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