On Writing

Written March 2007.

I've often sat and wondered if writing was some sort of gift from God. Well, no doubt it is, but what I mean is, I wonder if He sent that gift to me to help me cope with my sometimes crippling crises. And I wonder this because it seems as if my passion for writing came out of nowhere. As far back as I can remember, I've never even considered writing as a medium in which I could express myself and release my emotions. For me, it was always art (drawing, painting, the dream of one day learning to animate). But, the funny thing about art is I never used it to express myself. I never used my drawings or paintings to reflect how I was feeling inside. I suppose for me, art was where I went to get away from all those feelings instead of facing and funneling them into something positive. Instead of using pencils to penetrate the pain, I used erasers to escape everything. For me, drawing was the way I didn't have to worry about how I looked or how I felt. Drawing was my little escape, the one place where I could be outside of who I was at the time. The product of my paintings usually had little or nothing to do with emoting. I liked drawing people. I got lost in the lines in their faces and fixated on their features. For me, the final product of my drawings were not expressions of myself, only the end result of an escape process.  Really, just a stress reliever, a way to relax.

But, my perfectionism kicked in hardcore a few years ago and I've sort of put drawing to the side. What was once a therapeutic past time soon turned into an exercise in frustration. I just couldn't draw the way I wanted. My pieces never looked as good on paper as they did in my head. So, I stopped and therefore stopped the little emotional release I was allowing myself. Then, several years ago, my friend heard about LiveJournal. We decided to both create accounts just for fun.  I had never really written anything outside of the classroom up until then. And as an amateur blogger, I did the typical writing (writing about my day, writing about what I had for dinner, writing about what I watched on television the night before.) But, somewhere along the macaroni and cheese I had for lunch and my dismay over the end of Buffy the Vampire Slayer, I started slipping in how I was feeling.

What once was a chronicle of my daily activities turned into a record of regrets and ruminations. It was the weirdest sensation. I actually felt a little bit better about things after I wrote them down. I realized that I finally had a way to funnel my frustrations. It was like I didn't have to keep everything inside after all. Up until then, I kept my thoughts and feelings to myself. My family isn't the type to share and I've never really had friends that listened to me. I always listened to their problems and dished out advice. And because I was their high school therapist, I knew they had a lot of baggage so I didn't want to burden them with mine. Therefore, I kept it inside.  Then I discovered writing.  What a sweet release! As the years progressed, so did my writing and the seriousness with which I wrote. I realized not only could I express how I was feeling, but with writing, I could express anything. I could express how I wanted to feel. I could express all those things I've always wanted to say in person but couldn't. I could express my dreams and my hopes, my fantasies and the way I wish things were. I realized writing is an entire world on its own, a world that I had access to, a world where I could do anything or be anything I wanted. Writing soon took over as my stress reliever. I realized I could do so much more with writing and go so much farther than with my limited abilities as an artist.

And the thing about writing is, unlike drawing, I don't feel as self-conscious about it as I do drawing. I suppose it's because I know that I'm not a real writer. I'm a real artist (or I used to be) but writing is just sort of a hobby. I guess it makes me feel safer about it, knowing that if I don't take it too seriously, then I won't be judged by how good or bad it is 'cause it's just something I do in my free time. But, I'm starting to take it seriously and it seriously scares me. When I was a little lad, drawing used to be so much fun. When I wasn't concerned with accuracy or if it really looked like the person I was drawing, I was good. It was a fun process and I enjoyed it. But, the moment I took it seriously I grew to despise drawing. When I took it seriously, I felt like it became work and then it wasn't fun anymore. And now I'm starting to take writing seriously and I'm just so scared that it won't be fun anymore, that I'll get as frustrated with it as I did with drawing and painting. And then I'll stop doing that, too. And if I do, then where will that leave me? How will I express myself? Interpretive dance?  Hemp jewelry?  It worries me a lot. I feel like God realized that drawing wasn't cutting it anymore, so maybe he sent me the gift of writing to compensate. I corrupted His gift of art and now I feel I'm corrupting His gift of writing, too, and maybe He's not gonna be so willing to hand out any more talents since I've messed up the others.

But, sometimes writing is really frustrating. Sometimes my mind goes ninety miles an hour and I can't catch up with where it's going. I'll sit in class and I'll have an epiphany and I have to write it down that instant or I'll lose it. It's like my mind can comprehend something and only keep it for a little while. My notebooks are a funny sight. Included in my class notes are scribbled realizations scrawled in the margins. In some of my notebooks, the back of them are solely dedicated to lines of poetry or things I would like to discuss so my mind will be appeased. And what really gets on my nerves is the fact that I think when I'm in class, but not when I'm in my room. It's like my mind's priorities are really screwed up. When I should be concentrating on class, my mind is pondering the universe, yet when I have all the free time in the world to write or think, I don't want to. My mind is tired and would rather soothe itself with a nice nap or mindless television that doesn't make me think too hard.

My mind is confusingly configured.

It feels good to have the weight of problems lifted when I write. It doesn't make them go away entirely. The problem is still there, but the pressure is relieved a bit. And now that my mind has found some semblance of relief, it seeks that relief all the time. It constantly seeks to alleviate the pressure it puts on itself. My mind is consistently trying to purge my thoughts. This leads to an uncomfortable uneasiness when I can't just sit down to pen and paper right then and there. My thoughts try to claw their way out and continue to scratch at the inside of my skull until I can release them. And maybe that's why I think all the time. My mind has found some sort of escape for my emotions, so it's making up for all the times I buried my pain. And perhaps in my effort to help myself, I'm only causing more damage.

But, at the same time, I can't help but to feel healed. Writing really is therapeutic to me. It helps me get out a lot of emotion and pain. It's even a good way for me to convey the seldom times of satisfaction. I do believe writing has saved my life in many ways. It's been an emotional outlet. It's kept me from going insane many a time. For me, writing has been a great tool to help me figure out myself and figure out why I am the way I am. Writing helps me make sense of my senseless life and the senseless world around me. Writing has been a great way for me to chronicle my introspection, to write down all of the realizations I come across about myself and about life in general. Writing has helped me to deal with some of my sadness and anger. Writing has been a good way to keep record, not of just the wrongs, but the rights in my life. I've had some good times and now that they are immortalized in words, they are forever a reminder of the happiness I've had.

And the storyteller aspect of my writing is another way in which I can deal with things. There's a lot of things in my life I've never done. There's a lot I missed out on. There's also a lot of things I wish I could do that I know I never will. Writing is my way of doing those things, of experiencing those pleasures I missed out on so long ago. I can create characters and have them go through the things I wish I could have. And because almost all characters I create are some forms of me, an extension of my internal self (because that's all I know to draw from) it's almost like I am going through those situations, too. I can vicariously live through the characters I create. In these worlds, I can experience love and romance, passion and pleasures. I can take out my anger on the unclean. I can exact my revenge on the wicked. I can claim victory over evil. And in my world, although the hero endures tragedy, he always wins. He does find happiness in the end. It's my way of wishing happiness upon myself, my way of reassuring myself that although times are painful now, happiness is waiting in the form of hope. And if I can just hope hard enough and write about it well enough, maybe I'll find it. And I realize my vicariousness my cause concern for some. I can't just sit in my room and write about falling in love or write about going on great adventures. I should make them happen. And I realize this. I'm not going to get lost in my writing. I'm not going to become a slave to my fantasies. It's all innocent. It's all just safe little stories that allow me to vent or convey a situation.

And all of this just came to me one day. What started as the typical teenage babble about the mall turned into some serious soul searching. And I'm thankful to God for giving me a tool to be able to do that. 'Cause not only do I want to help myself, but I want to help others. I used to want to help people with my art, but when I pushed art aside, I had no way to help people. But, maybe I've found a new way. And although I've never considered an occupation that involves writing, I definitely wouldn't be opposed to it if the offer came up. I also become increasingly excited at the idea of having my writing published. I do believe my new dream would be to have my collection of essays turned into a book or to write an original story of my own. But, we'll see how that turns out. I won't pursue it, not just yet. For now, I'll just keep my words intimate. I'll just keep my thoughts between you and me. I'll just share myself with a few friends at a time. Besides, I think I like things just the way they are....at least for now.