Blessing or Curse?

I just read a great article that someone posted on Facebook by literary agent Steve Laube. Go here and take a peek. It talks about the doubts of a writer. Ever been there? If you've written anything in you life, from a thank you note to a novel, I'll bet you have.

Tonight, I am feeling melancholy. Why? Because I've been so unproductive with my writing these past few days. I've started projects I had every intention of completing, but there is a hesitancy that holds me back. I've promised a couple of people that I would do blog interviews with them, and I can't even think of decent questions to ask.

Steve entitled his piece "The Curse of the Writer", and he is so right. A blessing to be able to put words on paper when they flow right, a curse when they stay bottled up inside. Tonight, words remind me of a crowd of people leaving a large area all at once and trying to squeeze out a narrow exit door. Everybody expends their energy to get free, but nobody gets anywhere. Progress stops as people trickle out of the door one or two at a time.

Phrases filled with power vie for attention in my brain, but something has them all jumbled up in a mess. They try to force their way out in random order, so nothing that appears on paper makes any sense.

Writing is a lonely business. Steve talks about that too. Reminds me of a piece I wrote a long time ago. I'll share it here.

Loneliness touches each of us at one time or another. There is the emptiness of love lost and love betrayed, the sorrow of death or absence of a friend, the abandonment of an elderly person by family members, the frustration of being misunderstood by others. Most desolate of all, perhaps, is the loneliness of hopes and dreams not yet realized. My loneliness stems from the desire for creative self-expression.

This desire, like a hunger deep in my heart, demands satisfaction. It burns in me constantly, so intense that it simulates physical pain. It is a thirst that parches my soul and craves gratification. It leaves me with a sense of discontent, restlessness, and dissatisfaction with the other aspects of my life.

The dissatisfaction is of my own making. I’ve been granted free will. I make my own choices. I stare at a blank piece of paper and I have the ability to cover it with words what will communicate meaning. I hold the key that will unlock my deepest emotions and allow them to flow in some constructive form. Yet, I question what I want to write, to whom, and why.

The question of why is the most complex. Why I have a drive to express my perceptions, my beliefs, my feelings on paper is not easily explained. Maybe it is a God-given gift to be employed toward positive change in some other human being. Possibly it is a part of the genetic structure that is me. Perhaps it is a means of escape from all that is painful and all that is real.

The necessity to escape leads me to a fantasy of hopes and dreams that only I can understand. It is a region as yet unexplored, uncharted, undefined, without form or boundary. It is a world that even those I love cannot share, for it is a product of my imagination.

Imagination removes me from reality and I lose touch with those around me. I withdraw into a world of my own and become more and more isolated. I conceal myself in a cocoon that yearns for transformation. Desperately, I struggle to find words to place on the page that will someday free me from the prison of my loneliness.

Maybe tomorrow I will feel better.

Maybe tomorrow I will be able to create something worthwhile.

Maybe tomorrow I won't feel so sad.

Maybe tomorrow I will be able to think of something positive I have done.

Maybe tomorrow I won't dwell on all the things I need to do that I haven't done.

Thanks for reading my blog!