When does a writer meet their break?
Never mind the big one, the flashy-lights-and-signatures break that comes with a well-timed manuscript. Some perfect piece of alphabet art. Prepackaged to be adapted into a screenplay.
I'm worried about the final break, the epic one that seems to come at some point after the flashy lights, or after no lights at all.
The mental one.
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I've been writing A LOT.
Far more than I admit to anyone. About things that I definitely don't admit to anyone. Hundreds of thousands of words: 15,000 there, 25,000 over there, 92,000 way over here . . . . 10k in a document, stalled in progress, 12k written as an alternate point of view. Words that I'm still not sure if I've squandered on something meaningless.
Because let's not even start to discuss the 350, 000 word manuscript I haven't even glanced over at in over a year.
So when do writer's have that mental break? When they're old and rotting from the inside, soaked in liquor and prepared to light themselves on fire, scribbling down their very worst in their very last moments?
Maybe it's the moment when you look at that stack of books you're reading, all ten of them, and your shelves, every precious inch of space on them saved for the combinations of letters smashed up between bindings that truly moved you and you want you name on a book like that bad enough that it burns a hole right through you.
I don't know what the fuck I'm doing, honestly.
I type faster than I can think and some of it leads me nowhere but then sometimes . . . it does. And typically in a direction I never would have guessed. And for some reason it lead me into this weird, weird place because you know all those prepackaged screenplay/books that are becoming mega movie franchises right now?
Yeah, they're fanfiction.
And let's just preface THIS conversation by saying that no one liked me over there. I didn't follow their rules. I broke up their eternal-love couples and made them lesbians. Made them drive on the wrong side of the road and sneak into buildings to paint the walls with murals of cowgirls shooting stars. I made them love someone else, someone they weren't supposed too, and I sure didn't paint a nice romantic ride off into the sunset when I found my finish. I doped them up and tore them down and really enjoyed myself for the most part, even if no one else did. A testament to this fact is that yeah, I changed their names and posted stories here that were originally written as Twific, but in all honesty are just too fucking good for only that.
I'm a vain asshole. Whatever.
I LOVE writing. So much that it's killing me. I smoke too many cigarettes and don't do enough laundry. I drink whiskey and don't eat enough. I hide out in the back of the house while the rest of my life goes on around me, ignoring phone calls and deadlines and relationships because I just can't get the words out of my head. They just won't stop and this is probably when the writer meets their break.
When it just won't fucking STOP.
When they can't even see beyond the letters and no wonder they all go crazy in the end.
I'm sorry and also a bit glad you're taking a break.. lthough, I hope is not for long. Just know that I'm here, to flail, to randomly throw more lyrics at you at random time, to pretend like I know what the fuck is going on, really, just anything you need. And because I suck at giving advice, I'll leave you with the following combination of those 26 letters you love so much. (Not mine)but so meant
ReplyDeletewriter,
you do not always have to write what hurts.
sometimes there are unbearable memories,
and you are allowed to keep them locked away,
to keep them secret even from your pen.
there are words that were said to you
that you would never want to repeat,
words that broke you in
unimaginable ways
and thinking
of writing what it did to you,
makes your hands shake,
you do not have to write the things
that break you.
writer,
you do not always have to write love.
sometimes the butterflies in your stomach
and the nerves in your soul
and the static electricity you feel in your heart,
from touching another’s,
does not have to be written -
it is too great,
too much,
too indescribable,
for you to try and contain it to a few simple words
with an ink filled pen.
when you feel something you cannot contain,
you do not have to use your words,
you can use your actions as a poem,
as a story of your life,
you do not always have to write the love that is on your fingertips.
writer,
write for passion,
write for love
write for everything in between.
write to ignite fires
and to put them out.
write as an ointment to heal,
and as a cast to keep together.
write to save,
to protect.
but only write if you feel it in your bones,
deep in your marrow,
and pumping through every artery and vein.
if your lips cannot hold back the words
that your heart is spilling out,
if your fingers are itching to hold a pencil and share what your eyes have seen,
what have made your knees weak,
and your toes curl.
write only when you want to,
when you need to,
don’t ever feel obligated
to write
everything.
you don’t owe anyone your words
You might think you're terrible at advice, but you always know just what I need to hear. Crying all the tears after that one, but it was perfect and written just for me and you knew that somehow. Thank god for you, bbdoll. I dunno what I did to deserve you, but I'm super fucking thankful.
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