The urge came about to take a break from writing. Maybe nail it on the head for a month. Working forty hours a week and writing for another thirty drains the life out of me. It’s what I love, but as the winter months draw in, being exhausted all the time isn’t my idea of fun. If I didn’t write, though, what would I do? It’s the only thing I’m half decent at, and the only thing that gives me any sense of purpose. I toyed with the idea of laying off the booze as well. Can you imagine it? No writing and no beer? By the end of the first week, I’d probably be applying for a job in a bank and signing up for the local gym. Being single for several months has left me lacking magic as well, yet in my experience, relationships and writing don’t mix too good. Unable to balance the two, I obsess with one or the other, but never both. Love makes me complacent. I adore waking in the arms of someone close to my heart, yet when the words dry up, and writers block kicks in, the inevitable breakdown soon comes around. Ask any women I’ve ever dated and they’ll vouch that in the beginning I’m a lover worth fighting for, but by the end, I’m distant and out of sorts. I’m selfish and neglectful when my artistic desires are in full flow. It’s not the outcome I want, but when the visions take over, there’s little left for romance. Maybe when the novel and journal are done, things will be different although I’m not holding out much luck. Success is only temporary as far as I’m concerned. You can bask in its glory for a while, but the novelty soon wears off. In the end, there’s only one thing that seems to ease the pain, and that’s chasing the black dog back to where it came from. The dazzling majesty of self-expression; of looking deep inside and being able to preserve those fleeting feelings others can’t touch. To belong is all I want, though as the years come and go, the war is always constant. It never ends. There are no conclusions, only more and more questions.
Categories: On Writing