Every few weeks, I run a thought experiment to see how my emotional constitution has changed; this could mean it devolves to a more base state where I can't understand my own emotions, or a sort of mental peak were everything seems clear. I'm currently the latter, and I am really starting to understand why.
Writing is many different things for many different people, but I think it is undeniable that when you focus in on something you wish to create, your investment becomes a critical factor. I know that a lot of people who do write might feel the odd shift, or they might not be all that affected by it at all. There isn't black and white for understanding the process, but the more heart and soul you pound into something, the more joy it brings to you. Whether it is a model ship, a novella, or a piece of music, if you believe in it and get to the point where you are finely tuning everything, there is a great peak which comes as a result of the journey. And the feeling can have a climax point when the project is finished. Yet, the rise always is followed by a fall. It is on to the next thing. Maybe it is the feeling that people won't read it. Maybe it is the feeling that people won't see your vision. Or maybe...just maybe...when it leaves your hands, you miss the process.
When I become invested in writing, I have a tendency to turn off. Nobody is important, not even myself. I chain smoke. I drink large quantities of alcohol. I stay awake at night thinking. Always thinking. Always revising. I get shit for sleep and the whole time it is just a grind. To be quite frank? I hate it. I hate the process when it gets to that point. If there is a deadline, that becomes the locus. If there isn't a deadline, what is the point of even bothering going through the Hell?
Talking with a friend today on the phone, I came to realize the sharp valleys I experienced mentally from about September onto the beginning of this year had everything to do with postpartum depression. If mothers who have experienced this with their children, I hope they do not take offense to claiming the term for my self examination. It was rapid fire; from that time in September, there were three deadlines, and in that space I four rather long and arduous pieces of writing. Soul sucking. Because, in truth, it was a story I felt compelled to tell, a story that had kept me occupied while working on jobs and on long car rides and so on and so forth. I had significant downturns after the results, in spite of critical praise from my peers. No words of kindness, of desire to see me continue my story ever seemed to satisfy the gaping hole I felt during those between times. And when it was over...left to be unfinished because the powers that be decided it was time to end, I was moved to tears. And for a long while, I couldn't accept that.
Perhaps I became what I always dreaded during these moments; a simpering baby who cried for attention, who was hyperaware of my surroundings and everpresent feelings of dissatisfaction with how some of my correspondences had dried up without having a simple explanation as to why. The sinking feeling I felt was odd, and was something I have become familiar with when it comes to unexplained tension.
I have, in the christening of this new year, realized my own faults, but just as importantly, realized the reasoning why.
But at the same time, and as sad as this may make me, I learned still more about people. I can't fathom to state that those people that don't speak to me now have fundamental issues that upset me. I can't explain what I could have done wrong. So I refuse to wear a crown of thorns without actual justification. And honestly, I've attempted to mend fences I wasn't even sure needed mending. I know that when we get to these points, the only thing that actual counts is what someone will say to you.
Their silence can speak volumes.
But, again, I have no delusions; if silence wasn't their active choice, I'd hear their voices.
The only difference, now, is that the silence doesn't rattle. I am sure there will be attitude shifts as this year goes on depending upon the sorts of projects I attempt, and I figure to be as productive as I can be.
I'm clear and focused and excited for the first time in a while. I'm not angry for the sake of it. I'm not suffering from headaches that bring me to my knees. And best of all, in these last few weeks, I am totally comfortable in this skin, in this mind.
Which is the best way to be.
Writing is many different things for many different people, but I think it is undeniable that when you focus in on something you wish to create, your investment becomes a critical factor. I know that a lot of people who do write might feel the odd shift, or they might not be all that affected by it at all. There isn't black and white for understanding the process, but the more heart and soul you pound into something, the more joy it brings to you. Whether it is a model ship, a novella, or a piece of music, if you believe in it and get to the point where you are finely tuning everything, there is a great peak which comes as a result of the journey. And the feeling can have a climax point when the project is finished. Yet, the rise always is followed by a fall. It is on to the next thing. Maybe it is the feeling that people won't read it. Maybe it is the feeling that people won't see your vision. Or maybe...just maybe...when it leaves your hands, you miss the process.
When I become invested in writing, I have a tendency to turn off. Nobody is important, not even myself. I chain smoke. I drink large quantities of alcohol. I stay awake at night thinking. Always thinking. Always revising. I get shit for sleep and the whole time it is just a grind. To be quite frank? I hate it. I hate the process when it gets to that point. If there is a deadline, that becomes the locus. If there isn't a deadline, what is the point of even bothering going through the Hell?
Talking with a friend today on the phone, I came to realize the sharp valleys I experienced mentally from about September onto the beginning of this year had everything to do with postpartum depression. If mothers who have experienced this with their children, I hope they do not take offense to claiming the term for my self examination. It was rapid fire; from that time in September, there were three deadlines, and in that space I four rather long and arduous pieces of writing. Soul sucking. Because, in truth, it was a story I felt compelled to tell, a story that had kept me occupied while working on jobs and on long car rides and so on and so forth. I had significant downturns after the results, in spite of critical praise from my peers. No words of kindness, of desire to see me continue my story ever seemed to satisfy the gaping hole I felt during those between times. And when it was over...left to be unfinished because the powers that be decided it was time to end, I was moved to tears. And for a long while, I couldn't accept that.
Perhaps I became what I always dreaded during these moments; a simpering baby who cried for attention, who was hyperaware of my surroundings and everpresent feelings of dissatisfaction with how some of my correspondences had dried up without having a simple explanation as to why. The sinking feeling I felt was odd, and was something I have become familiar with when it comes to unexplained tension.
I have, in the christening of this new year, realized my own faults, but just as importantly, realized the reasoning why.
But at the same time, and as sad as this may make me, I learned still more about people. I can't fathom to state that those people that don't speak to me now have fundamental issues that upset me. I can't explain what I could have done wrong. So I refuse to wear a crown of thorns without actual justification. And honestly, I've attempted to mend fences I wasn't even sure needed mending. I know that when we get to these points, the only thing that actual counts is what someone will say to you.
Their silence can speak volumes.
But, again, I have no delusions; if silence wasn't their active choice, I'd hear their voices.
The only difference, now, is that the silence doesn't rattle. I am sure there will be attitude shifts as this year goes on depending upon the sorts of projects I attempt, and I figure to be as productive as I can be.
I'm clear and focused and excited for the first time in a while. I'm not angry for the sake of it. I'm not suffering from headaches that bring me to my knees. And best of all, in these last few weeks, I am totally comfortable in this skin, in this mind.
Which is the best way to be.
