I have never bothered to really let anyone in on the secret of exactly why I dislike writing. I will acknowledge that I am better at it than the average bear, though I stop short of saying that I'm "good", whatever that may mean.People seem to have a hard time understanding that just because you're good at something doesn't necessarily mean you like it.
If you have ever taken the time to read anything on the actual craft of writing, the actual "how-to's" of getting ideas onto paper (or onto your computer screen, as the case may be), you'll note that at some point the author will talk of getting "into the zone". That magical place where his hands take over and he doesn't have to think about what he's writing, like the words just seem to flow from his fingers. And when they come back to reality after however much time has passed, they see they've written 3 pages or whatever it is while not having any memory of having put an effort into having written that much. A lot of writers will say it's like the words write themselves; like what a musician must feel when they get lost in the music. It's like being plugged directly in to the universe, in a very real and visceral way, and acting as nothing more than a conduit for the words, a catalyst for the words to form and appear. I have been lucky enough to experience this zen-like flow of words once or twice (maybe more times) in the course of my writing "career" (such as it is). It's an incredible feeling, leaving me feeling slightly dazed and spent, like the comedown of really good ecstasy or a particularly powerful orgasm. It really is an amazing feeling, and everyone who creates in any way should be lucky enough to experience it at least once.
As amazing as it is to be plugged in like that, I still dislike the act of writing. And the reason behind that is because, for me, the words only tend to come for me when I'm experiencing some sort of emotional turmoil or pain. The only time I find I can write is when I'm hurting. And frankly, the fact that I've been feeling the drive lately to start writing words again is distressing to me on a personal level. I have come to associate writing, and the urge to write, with bad times. Whenever the urge to write comes, it's usually in conjunction with some sort of emotional/mental/physical crisis. And now is no different.
For a short time, when I was a younger man, I harbored secret dreams of writing for a living, making money with my words. But back then, I was pretty much always sad and depressed, and hadn't yet come to associate writing with anything negative. That came later, after I had experienced happiness and contentment for the first time in my life. But now I've lost that happiness and contentment due to my own fears and insecurities. I'm not sure what it is I'm looking for by starting to post here again. Maybe it's just a way to siphon the poison out of my heart, let it out in some way before it kills me. But the truth is, I've never cared to hone my craft, even when writing was more enjoyable for me. I've never taken the time to sit and practice and become really good at this. I've just let this talent I may or may not have lay fallow, never harvesting it and seeing what I can grow with it, never bothering to plant any seeds on the page.
I started this blog with the intention of maybe using it as an outlet for my thoughts and ideas, and as a way of tricking myself into practicing my writing a bit more, maybe improving on this little hidden talent. It's also an emotional vomitorium of sorts for me, a place where I can let loose all the demons running around my head and let them run around free for a bit before trying to get them back in their cages. And in the process, if my luck is in, maybe the words will help to exorcise them.
After all, what's the worst that could happen?
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