I often get lost within myself. It seems to be the only place where I can let go of everything, to feel able to commit to paper (or, well that lovely, open word document) all the things that I wish to say. It’s not always beautiful, or expertly crafted, but then again the purpose is to write raw and true.
Hemingway would be proud.
But something always tugs at my bones in those dark places we visit as writers to wring every last drop of imagination and inspiration from ourselves in order to create artistic chaos on the page – that we aren’t letting go. Not really. Everything is within us, there’s no reaching out beyond human consciousness. There’s no Other. Each of us suffering the great Alone of our lonely deep, drowning under the weight of expectation; that we can and should and will produce something of intrinsic value.
These creations are uniquely ours, and yet we design them in a way as to be something more. More than us. More than we can ever say or feel or experience. Like Dr Frankenstein’s Monster, they take on a life of their own, becoming more than we could contain, disassociated from what we thought we knew all along about ourselves and the worlds we draw.
But are we going mad in the process? I often wonder if perhaps we ought to be a little crazy to go so far, or to get so far in the first instance. Creation can be a lonely place, yet also a magical one.
It could be that in order to be free, truly free we have to enlighten ourselves to the knowledge that we are not free at all. Perhaps only then can we expect to be able to reach into our imaginations and pull out something special. Something worthwhile.
In the end it’s all we can do to leave behind a thumbprint of our lives:
The written word.*
*Procrastination can be a fine thing too, but time to get back to that lovely word document . . .
The Wolf and the Crow 