It seems that going mad was the best thing that ever happened to me. Before the breakdown of my relationship, and the mess that followed, I’d become complacent. Writing didn’t mean that much to me. Yes, I was working on a novel, but that had been reduced to wallpaper long beforehand. Whenever I tried to write, there was no passion. Motivation was lacking so severely, that subconsciously, I’d already given up. The desire wasn’t there, and the urge I’d once had to capture the magic of words was missing. I’d become impotent. The artist I once was, gone. In my days at university, and in the early stages of the novel’s creation, I was busy and prolific. I lived to create. But as the years went by, it left me. For whatever reason, the spark in me had died. My madness, my gift, was gone. And then, I woke up. I lost the love of a beautiful woman. Was left dangling in the wind, my love rejected with no one but myself to blame. So with nothing left to cling to, and in an attempt to save myself from oblivion, I turned to the only thing I knew could help me- writing. I’d neglected it for so many years, but in my lowest hours, it was there for me, and it gave me strength. Fast forward several months, and writing is what I live for again. It’s the first thing I think of when I wake. It stalks me through the day, and invades my dreams at night. The words bubble wherever I am. The madness of the artist I once was returned in full force. It feels as if I’ve found my soul, after such a long stasis. The fire in my belly, burning once more. From the depths of lonely despair, I’ve become the person I always dreamt of being. I wish it didn’t have to be like this. I wish it didn’t have to take losing so much for me to get it back, but it did. Destruction is a form of creation, and sometimes, you need to lose it all in order to get going again. Love is important. More than anything, love can save you. And so can your gift, whatever it may be. Writing is mine. I may not be a great writer, but it’s what I’m about. It fills me with joy, and it has saved me. Saved me from the tigers at the foot of my bed in those terrible days of December when everything had gone wrong. It was the one thing that gave me comfort and some sense of control. It wasn’t angry that I’d neglected it for so long, in fact, it welcomed me back with open arms. The two of us resumed our journey in an instant, and there’s been no looking back. So here’s to writing, love, and redemption.
Categories: On Writing