I have been struggling for a few days with a potential blog post. What I want to say and do has been clear enough, in my mind. However, in view of two postings ago, I’m aware of the line between being dramatic and being melodramatic. I am fighting valiantly against forces of intellectual emptiness. My mental health may remain fragile, but giving in to the evils of the secular-materialist world has never been an option.
We want to believe that carving a chunk of time out for writing should be therapeutic. We tell ourselves that selecting a neglected manuscript, shutting out the chaos of daily life, and concentrating on some composition would do us some good. But what happens when the manuscript becomes part of the problem? What if its lingering incompleteness starts to mock you? The very fact that it has been sitting there, and you can’t recall the last time you looked at it, only serves as a reminder that the chaos of daily life has destroyed all your hopes and dreams. That stack of yellowing pages becomes a thing of hateful self-loathing.
So it has become for my NaNoWriMo project. I had started transcribing the typewritten pages. It had been so long since I could think about the narrative that I needed some way to reacquaint myself with my own work. One particular scene had been revised three times to prod the plotline along. My characters had decided that sitting in a darkened room was more to their liking than facing the challenges, outside. I have to agree with them. It’s a dangerous world, out there.
The story I envisioned with such hope, two Novembers ago, has gone beyond suffering from writer’s block. I have had to accept that, although I still have an abundance of ideas, I can not force myself to care. Fighting to go on with the project was doing as much damage as any self-destructive behavior could. The thought of destroying two years of work is painful. The thought of trying to continue it is agonizing, and I must do something desperate to end this suffering.
It’s not like this was a living thing, Or, if it ever was, it has not been for a very, very long time. As the embers begin cool into gray ash, I release those ill-conceived creative thoughts back into the nothingness from whence they came. I've got more significant things on my mind.