This may sound stupid, but listening to Linkin Park right now. . . I had a really jarring moment of clarity. I almost broke down in tears thinking, for some reason, of a book I wrote years ago. It was the first major book I ever tried to write, and the first one I ever finished.
That time in my life was just terrible. I'm not sure how else to describe it. I was depressed all the time. I considered suicide a lot. Eventually I went to a therapist, and I was diagnosed with OCD.
I didn't want to be alive. I had no friends. People, even family members, went out of their way to avoid me. I could never be happy. I drifted from one day to the next in a haze, and waited to go to sleep at night, to escape the anguish. It was like I was locked in a dark room without a key and the walls were closing in. Sorry for the cliche.
I started writing around that time. It was an escape for me. I wasn't any good at it, but I vented everything I had into fantasy. I was ambitious. I shot high, and even though I hit low, at least I'd tried. My writing was terrible, and painful, but exciting, and. . .I really think writing saved my life. I was never happier than when I was introducing a new character, or writing a new scene. For a while, I could just forget who I was to live in a world that worked the way I wanted it to.
I worked on it and worked on it for four years. My life started getting better. I started talking to people. I fought every day to break habits, confront my OCD. I fought to accept who I was, faults and all. Writing became slavation for me. It was something a talentless idiot like me could cling to, and call his own. It gave me more than an outlet. It gave me pride, and a reason to live. My spirit soared every time someone's eyes widened when they heard that I-- I, the talentless loser, was writing a book.
Eventually, I finished the book. It had 400 pages. 400 terrible, nonsensical, cliched pages that represented the most painful years of my life. The moment I wrote the last word, I put it on a shelf and I haven't looked at it for more than a few combined minutes in more than five years.
Since then, I've gotten much better at writing. I've worked hard ever day to create original characters and detailed plots. I've worked to improve my grammar and prose. I took a writing class, and apparently I blew everyone else away.
I've written stupid, trifling things. Bits of chapters, dialogue exchanges, outlines. But whenever it came time to sit down and actually write something big, a new book, I could never do it. For five years, I've barely written anything cohesive. Every time I try, my mind goes blank and I start to hate myself all over again. I hate that I can't just write like I used to. As bad as that book was, at least it was something real. Anything on paper is better than the most beautiful dream.
I keep telling myself that I'm good at writing. That sooner or later, something will just click, like it used to, and I can love writing again. I want my practice to be worth something. I don't want to wind up back where I was.
But just now, listening to Linkin Park, for whatever stupid reason, I realized that I've been lying to myself. I called myself a writer, these five years I've been too afraid to write anything. I waste my time on forums like this, because I don't want to admit that I'm nothing special anymore. Whatever skill I had, I think I lost it somehow. I don't know if I want to keep writing, or give up and forget everything. Writing used to make me happy, but now it's just reminding me of how bad things used to be, and it's making me miserable.
Sorry for the wall of text. I just don't know what I'm going to do now.
That time in my life was just terrible. I'm not sure how else to describe it. I was depressed all the time. I considered suicide a lot. Eventually I went to a therapist, and I was diagnosed with OCD.
I didn't want to be alive. I had no friends. People, even family members, went out of their way to avoid me. I could never be happy. I drifted from one day to the next in a haze, and waited to go to sleep at night, to escape the anguish. It was like I was locked in a dark room without a key and the walls were closing in. Sorry for the cliche.
I started writing around that time. It was an escape for me. I wasn't any good at it, but I vented everything I had into fantasy. I was ambitious. I shot high, and even though I hit low, at least I'd tried. My writing was terrible, and painful, but exciting, and. . .I really think writing saved my life. I was never happier than when I was introducing a new character, or writing a new scene. For a while, I could just forget who I was to live in a world that worked the way I wanted it to.
I worked on it and worked on it for four years. My life started getting better. I started talking to people. I fought every day to break habits, confront my OCD. I fought to accept who I was, faults and all. Writing became slavation for me. It was something a talentless idiot like me could cling to, and call his own. It gave me more than an outlet. It gave me pride, and a reason to live. My spirit soared every time someone's eyes widened when they heard that I-- I, the talentless loser, was writing a book.
Eventually, I finished the book. It had 400 pages. 400 terrible, nonsensical, cliched pages that represented the most painful years of my life. The moment I wrote the last word, I put it on a shelf and I haven't looked at it for more than a few combined minutes in more than five years.
Since then, I've gotten much better at writing. I've worked hard ever day to create original characters and detailed plots. I've worked to improve my grammar and prose. I took a writing class, and apparently I blew everyone else away.
I've written stupid, trifling things. Bits of chapters, dialogue exchanges, outlines. But whenever it came time to sit down and actually write something big, a new book, I could never do it. For five years, I've barely written anything cohesive. Every time I try, my mind goes blank and I start to hate myself all over again. I hate that I can't just write like I used to. As bad as that book was, at least it was something real. Anything on paper is better than the most beautiful dream.
I keep telling myself that I'm good at writing. That sooner or later, something will just click, like it used to, and I can love writing again. I want my practice to be worth something. I don't want to wind up back where I was.
But just now, listening to Linkin Park, for whatever stupid reason, I realized that I've been lying to myself. I called myself a writer, these five years I've been too afraid to write anything. I waste my time on forums like this, because I don't want to admit that I'm nothing special anymore. Whatever skill I had, I think I lost it somehow. I don't know if I want to keep writing, or give up and forget everything. Writing used to make me happy, but now it's just reminding me of how bad things used to be, and it's making me miserable.
Sorry for the wall of text. I just don't know what I'm going to do now.