Saturday, 23 October 2010
Getting back into the groove of writing is never as easy as it seems. All my life I’ve been told, “you have so much talent, Jen” or “you make writing look so easy, Jen” or “I wish I had the ideas you do, Jen.”
I thank people for their comments because that’s what’s polite, but inside I’m screaming because there’s one truth they don’t get, they don’t understand, and it’s probably best they don’t. I wouldn’t wish this on anyone, though sometimes, in my darker moments, I vaguely consider it, just so someone might understand what I go through.
I’ve said it before: I play the tortured writer well. Though it isn’t all just an act. Parts of it certainly are, just like parts of life are merely an act, but most of it is sincere even if you can’t tell the difference. (Sometimes I can’t tell the difference either). I struggle with all the same things you do; lack of self-esteem, self-hate and self-loathing, suicidal tendencies, a god complex, Satanist ideals, acceptance, and self-worth. You may not directly relate to all of those things but I know you can relate to some. (That is if you’re a fellow writer.) We all play the tortured writer well.
This talent is also a curse. This gift is also punishment. This contentment is also misery.
I wouldn’t wish this on anyone who doesn’t understand it, though sometimes, in my darker moments, I vaguely wish for someone who fucking understands what’s going through my head.
In essence, resumption is a blessing in disguise. It brings me back to a state of normalcy but it also flings me back to the edge of the abyss because I’m nothing without my misery. I can’t write without my muse standing over me, threatening to stomp on my fingers thus casting me into the void of eternity, screaming.
Blessed and Cursed.