My best friend ever has gone away. As a writer, I lead a lonely existence—often it means spending hours isolated with my thoughts. I know that my fan-base is tiny, my voice unheard. My best friend listened, encouraged, and provided inspiration.
Recently she moved away and when I awake it is now later than my consistent 3:30 a.m., bursting with ideas. Now I find it hard to rise by 4:00, and the ideas are like a visit to the dentist. I want Fantasia back, but I know that can’t happen. Where does the forlorn writer go to find inspiration?
Like Willy Wonka, my work lately has been suffering. I limit myself to editing since new ideas just can’t be conjured. Writing means that free time is largely spent alone—not the best way to make friends. I certainly don’t influence people. Yet, I can’t stop trying.
Writing, as rational and heady as it is, is a matter of feeling. I try to express my complex and troubling emotions in words and images, often heavily allegorical, that editors can’t seem to understand or appreciate. My words, to them, are only a whisper in the jostling stock exchange of ideas. Easily ignored.
So I used to visit Fantasia. Share story ideas. Seek consolation when another rejection note came. Dance together when the rare acceptance arrived, like a miracle, in my inbox.
Like most writers, I write because I must. I have no choice in the matter. When bad things happen, I turn to pen and notebook, or plastic keys on my lap, or a few pokes at receptive glass screen. I put it into words. Some things, I’m learning, can’t be made into words at all.
I’ve known Fantastia for eighteen years, and then some. That’s a long time to ask to release. The best years of a lifetime. I’m still writing every day, but the output is sluggish, like a river choked with sediment. This is a river, however, I never want to dredge. That sediment, although so very heavy, is where the gold and gemstones are located.
Comments
Post a Comment