I've always loved writing. Ever since I wrote an extremely short story in first grade called "George Washington and the Purple Polka Dotted Measles," I learned that writing was in my blood. My mother wrote a lot and was published. She wasn't nationally known by any means, but she did it for the enjoyment and to help others.
She encouraged my writing and as long as I can remember I've had pen to paper at some point in my life doing some project, whether it be fiction, non-fiction, theological, or just plain silly. We write about what we know, it seems. In seminary, I was forced to write a lot about what I didn't know, but I think I faked it pretty well.
I love reading Stephen King, Dean Koontz, and Douglas Preston. I have no idea where they come up with their ideas. I'd suggest King's "On Writing," strongly, even if you have no ambition to write.
In that book, he discusses his addiction problems early in his career and how he doesn't even remember writing several books.
It's hard to write sometimes. Many authors struggle with addiction, depression, anxiety and the like. I don't always think it's because they're suffering from writer's block, either. I think when we write we are baring our soul for everyone to see. Even if fiction is being written, some part of
us is being dredged up and being dealt with by our conscious mind.
I've been blogging about my fall since March, I think. And there have been times I just had to take a break from it. Rethinking the whole thing and dealing with the issues around it hurt sometimes. There have been times when I relive moments of pain and hurt that were done to me. But for the most part, I realize how much I hurt others and I just have to stop for a while.
I wrote recently that I've been pounding out a book. I'm writing now about the death of my mother. It's been two years since she died. I thought I'd get through it without much difficulty. I was wrong. Thinking about the moments and the day she died bring back strong memories, smells, sights and things I had tucked away in a dark corner of my mind.
When you write about something like that, it effects your soul, your mood, your mind and how you treat other people. But then again, writing is also very good therapy, I think. If we're honest when we write, we can show ourselves where we lack and how we can get better. We can help others in their struggles. If we can be truly transparent, others might see themselves in some part of the story and be truly helped.
That's why Mom wrote and it helped people. She also suffered from deep depression. At the same time, writing helped her depression. Go figure.
Now, back to writing. And the dark confines of my soul. Say a prayer if you get a chance.
Well, the proverbial cat is out of the bag. It was coming, I suppose. But I'm glad it came on my terms.
