There’s always this pressure to “do something” with my writing. I’m constantly being told , or asked why I don’t want to be a writer professionally. I don’t bother explaining that whenever people mention it, it makes me want to beat the living shit out of them. My rage just rises to the surface, because in the suggestion, I feel people are trying to control me. Trying to control my words. I’m fully aware this is an insane response, and I know it’s because I have an entire airport full of emotional baggage from childhood…
As a child I believed the adults around me wanted to take ownership of my writing. Not the stories themselves, we aren’t discussing plagiarism, but the actual creativity. My “talent”, as it were. As though I was writing FOR THEM, and not for myself. I had to write when they wanted, what they wanted, and it was all so closely monitored. This outlet, that I had discovered within myself, was being taken from me. Even though I was just a kid, I understood that if people could be this controlling, feel this entitled with something so intrinsically MINE, then this would never be my life-time career choice. I didn’t want to do this for a living if people were already so quick to make demands on some ephemeral thing I had burning, living inside of me. Liken it to the Devil owning your soul- because I certainly did. So I said “no” to every single opportunity to expand or grow in something I used to LOVE to do. Because it wasn’t about me at that point, it was about fear of what I would say or what others would think about this little girl who wrote so angry. I think this was when I first developed my “fuck it, I’ll burn it down” method of expression.
Why is this even an issue right now? Mostly because I was having a moment, the other morning. I woke up with the tickling of a story idea. My alarm hadn’t even gone off, and I was half awake, looking for paper, inspired by remnants of a dream. Once I gathered my bearings, I wrote down as many things as I could remember, with the intentions of turning it all into something. I haven’t felt that desire in such a long time- at least not for fiction. I fully intended to take some time during lunch that day to expand on those ideas. I was excited, because I felt a little like my old self – the girl who was inspired by the randomness of life. The girl who could write an entire story based around a name shouted in a supermarket. Or a piece of clothing. Or getting coffee. I haven’t had “the muse” strike me in a VERY VERY VERY long time, and instead of fully enjoying it, I was plagued by bad childhood memories. In fact, a lot of what I’m feeling lately stems from old issues rearing their very ugly heads. Stuff I haven’t thought about in years, just randomly pop into my head during these kinds of moments.
Regardless, I think I’m going to battle through the icky feelings and try to write this story that’s still kind of stuck in my head. Well, it isn’t a whole story- it’s more like a scene, a vignette, if you will. And before you ask, no, I won’t be posting it on the blog. I’m a paranoid motherfucker and always think, even if it isn’t the best, someone’s going to come steal my idea. If you think I’m crazy, please ask any creative person, and they will admit we can be really ridiculous when it comes to protecting our work. But, I will at least keep you guys updated, as per usual.
Thanks for always reading. I appreciate it.
Always, G-Code.
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