therapy
Why do I write? Why do I keep going at it, day after day, year after year? I know I might not reach the point of success I desire - it's called being in touch with reality. Even though I have never let foolish ideas of stalemate discourage me, why bother to keep writing? Why not throw down the pen, delete a few dozen documents on the computer to free up space, and go find something sensible to do?
Because I can't.
Writing is release. It's eclectic, electric, absorbing, and therapeutic.
Eclectic because of what I learn from research. From what I learn about myself when I delve into the personal reservoir and dredge up experience and memory. I've surprised myself at the personal revelations I have put on the page.
Electric because it provides a charge. There is a thrill to craft sentences and paragraphs from thought into a cohesive whole.
Absorbing because my full concentration is directed into my mindset and onto the keyboard and screen with a singular focus. Distraction is rare. I force myself to break. The rest of the world diminishes and falls away for a short span of time.
Therapeutic because something visceral in the process repairs and restores. For me, writing is rehabilitative. It counteracts and alleviates daily concerns, stress, and unease. The world beyond the desk and the keyboard and this room become an echo of reality - a reality to which I know I must return, but with a quiescent attitude and an enhanced tolerance for what I feel is unjust, exigent, and frustrating about society and the world. Yes, exposing personal thoughts and ideas - morbid as they often are - helps to assuage the mundane and troublesome.
That is why I write. I first put pencil to paper in early childhood to create preposterous monster stories, and now in the world of adulthood the words in my mind are transferred through wires and circuitry and onto a CRT monitor. Though I do still use a pen and notebook from time-to-time.
No, the words never left me. They've taken a furlough at times throughout my life, but they have always returned. Yes, I actively seek broader success than the ephemeral freelance niche I've carved for myself, but that notwithstanding, I am also thankful that the word lives inside me.
The word is innate. It's salvage and reconstruction. I cannot live without it.
And it is eminently preferable to a straitjacket.
Because I can't.
Writing is release. It's eclectic, electric, absorbing, and therapeutic.
Eclectic because of what I learn from research. From what I learn about myself when I delve into the personal reservoir and dredge up experience and memory. I've surprised myself at the personal revelations I have put on the page.
Electric because it provides a charge. There is a thrill to craft sentences and paragraphs from thought into a cohesive whole.
Absorbing because my full concentration is directed into my mindset and onto the keyboard and screen with a singular focus. Distraction is rare. I force myself to break. The rest of the world diminishes and falls away for a short span of time.
Therapeutic because something visceral in the process repairs and restores. For me, writing is rehabilitative. It counteracts and alleviates daily concerns, stress, and unease. The world beyond the desk and the keyboard and this room become an echo of reality - a reality to which I know I must return, but with a quiescent attitude and an enhanced tolerance for what I feel is unjust, exigent, and frustrating about society and the world. Yes, exposing personal thoughts and ideas - morbid as they often are - helps to assuage the mundane and troublesome.
That is why I write. I first put pencil to paper in early childhood to create preposterous monster stories, and now in the world of adulthood the words in my mind are transferred through wires and circuitry and onto a CRT monitor. Though I do still use a pen and notebook from time-to-time.
No, the words never left me. They've taken a furlough at times throughout my life, but they have always returned. Yes, I actively seek broader success than the ephemeral freelance niche I've carved for myself, but that notwithstanding, I am also thankful that the word lives inside me.
The word is innate. It's salvage and reconstruction. I cannot live without it.
And it is eminently preferable to a straitjacket.
posted by Walls Falling at 8:44 PM
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