As a writer, I’m a tormented soul!
Well, not really; but, sometimes it feels as if I’m tormented.
There’s a crazy truth when it comes to writers and their writings, and the paradox creates such a chasm that it’s ridiculous. When a writer is not writing, the well of ideas dries up, and it’s impossible to start anything no matter how minor. That well of ideas is a lot like an inkwell, only not very well-sealed. If that ink sits in the well, it grows stagnant. Scum creeps over the surface, and eventually, the ink dries out until it’s a hard lump at the bottom of the bowl. But if that ink is used, constantly stirred and disturbed by the swirling of a quill, the scum is scattered, and the ink remains fresh. Millions and millions of words are waiting there, waiting to be put on paper.
I’m like that inkwell. When I’m not writing regularly and daily, a funky brain-scum hides my creativity, and I sit here for hours not able to write anything. But when I write day-after-day, week after week, my brain moves and creates – not just on the project I’m working, but on 1001 other projects and I can’t keep up with the flow of ideas. Those I can juggle are overwhelming, and I’m tortured with the need to work incessantly.
It’s no secret that I’m working on a 16 volume set of books related to the odu and the patakís making up their oral literary corpus. While working on that project (and it’s a lifetime of work in itself, I will agree) another book that has been nagging me finally broke through the fog which is my tired mind, and I’ve spent that past week outlining and developing that idea elusively. All the while, I’m dying to get back to work on my short stories, and the novel I have partially outlined is dying to be written. Plus, the book I’m outlining and developing now has birthed about 20 more ideas for books (extensions of the original), and I feel buried, unable to breathe or break away from pens, papers, or laptop that sits in front of me.
So what’s the point of this blog? There is no point, none at all. I’m thankful that I have a talent with the written word, and I’m even more thankful that I have readers who love every word I put on paper; and I’m ecstatic that I have critics who hate every word I write, because it motivates me to not only write more, but better. But . . . oh . . . my . . . gosh . . . I’m at a point in my life where I either have to focus on my writing or give it up if I hope to HAVE a life.
Oyá: Give me strength.