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write girl problems

August 27, 2015

that  thing seems to be happening again – where i kind of disappear into myself in order to write. feels odd to be complaining about that, truly, but it’s a weird feeling – it feels as if i’m always walking around sleep-deprived, or with a pressure headache, kind of muzzy and not all there. i always feel as if i can’t take a proper breath, that there’s something stopping me from filling my lungs all the way. and i get snappy. and, to be honest, kind of depressed (if one can be ‘kind of’ depressed; if you look at it like a spectrum). i explained it the other day as taking all of my emotions out, laying them on a light board, and examining them one at a time, rearranging them, splicing and slicing them, and then, when the writing is done and it’s time to go back to the real world, shoving them back inside of me. and of course, that leaves you discombobulated, and not quite able to reintegrate in an elegant manner. i get quiet, unfocused, and jumpy.

it’s a good thing. it means that i want to wake up to write, or cut down on going-out time to write. it’s a bad thing, because i’m about to become, honestly, less pleasant to be around.




i also take on unpleasant hermit-like qualities. first of all, my desire to be around people i’m emotionally or physically interested in falls. a lot. i’ve always said that dating and writing are on either ends of the scale for me: when i’m doing a lot of one, i’m doing less (or very little) of the other. people kind of roll their eyes at that sometimes, as if i’m using one as an excuse for not doing the other, or using it as a crutch, but it happens. i don’t know. maybe they come from the same font. it would make sense as to why i’m not inspired by men when i’m involved with them, but only after the fact.

coming out of writing is like coming out of one of those middle-of-the-night dreams, when you feel as if you’re being pulled out of a treacly mess and can’t quite figure out if you’re awake or not, if what you were just in was real or not. it’s slow, it’s muddy, it’s sometimes unpleasant, and the real world is occasionally not as nice as what you were just inhabiting. or sometimes you were just in a nightmare, something nasty, and it colours the rest of your day and you take on those weird qualities and are generally not so fun to be around.



oy boy. as if i should be complaining about being hit (probably literally hit – as in smacked in the head) by my muses again. but there is always something inherently unpleasant about the writing process, something that sits like a lump in your gut and niggles you and doesn’t go away until you’ve properly told what you need to say. and in between the research and the internet searches and the dark holes you kind of fall into (and let’s be honest – i don’t always write the cheeriest stuff, save for when i’m writing about human shit, i suppose) it can get tiring. less appetite, always feeling tired but never being able to sleep all that well. using the term ‘fever’ to describe it is kind of cliche and tacky, isn’t it, but i get it.

so for the next while, please excuse me. bear with me. i’m sorry.

One Comment leave one →
  1. Emilyweighsin permalink
    August 29, 2015 6:40 pm

    Sending love and light for your journey into the madness.

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