Leaving A Trail

“You’re an artist you know what I mean…” I’ve heard the line on different occasions in the recent months past, from a couple of my literary band of loonies, er, full-of-wonder-and-woe earthlings, whom I’ve been brainstorming with.  From having my correspondent let me dissect his mind to having one probe my psyche.  An artist going through artist’s angst.  You just can’t shake that feeling off on a whim.  It comes with the territory.  Finding someone on the same wavelength is a blast.  Or a bust.  It’s just uncanny when you hear the very same words you have in your head spoken by another soul.  You sometimes get goose bumps.  You see your own reflection on someone else’s story.  Your doubts and fears uttered by someone going through the same hell you are in.  Maia, a fellow blogger’s blogpost, “Inhale, Exhale…” prompted me to write this post.

So everyone seems afflicted. Another friend, Migz, who’s in the middle of writing his novel, should realize he’s not alone in the battle — the attack of self-doubt — when the muse decides to take a holiday, leaving us bone dry of literary juices.  It is at moments like this that we should have something else to fall back on to save our sanity.  Maia turns to books.  I turn to my photography.  I bet the author friend turns to his drawings.  To each his own.  Anything to replenish stale ideas and awaken the gloomy slumber of stagnant word pool.  Or simply do nothing at all.  Procrastinate.  Wallow in self-pity.

We rave and rant, and rack our brain… nothing comes.  The muse abandoned us completely.  Doubt slowly creeps in.  “Am I good?  Can I really write?  Would anyone read my blog?  Do I have what it takes to write a book?  Am I making sense?  Will the readers think I’m crazy, stupid, trying-hard-no-good scribe?…” Endless self-doubt. You’d soon be hanging in the abyss of utter despair and isolation should you continue to tread on this avenue of thought.

When the writing bug finally comes, we seize the moment.  We tap the keyboard profusely and write like crazy. Sometimes, loneliness propels us to write deep and profound.  Making us delve deeper into our consciousness which could drain the life out of us, leaving us physically enervated and emotionally exhausted.  It’s a lonely task.  Your memory bank immensely feed you with unsavory details of the painful past, heightening your present doubts… and gradually easing it away as you lose yourself in your work, let your mind freely wander and you become completely uninhibited, unfazed at what people who read your uncensored thoughts would think about you.  A revelation.  A healing process.  Writing to me is.

You don’t gauge the magnitude of your readership by the number of comments you get on your blogposts, dear one.  There are much more than one earthling reading you but they just choose not to leave their e-prints behind.  Sometimes you’ll know you’ve touched some souls from the personal messages you get referring to your posts. People from the past catch up with you.  New ones start connecting with you. But this isn’t all about who “hears” you.  You write for yourself.  It’s your prozac.

Mr B said more than once, “It’s in you.  Nobody can take it away from you.  It goes wherever you go…”  That’s whenever I think I lost my writing voice — which is often. You grope for words in the dark but find only stale, cold air.  It sends you chills thinking your rope to sanity is absolutely severed.

Don’t fret.  It’s just a moment, it’s soon gone — the writer’s block, doubts, and temporary insanity.  The wandering muse is certain to be around again. Oh, you’re an artist.  You know what I mean!

This entry was posted on Monday, May 18th, 2009 at 7:02 am Filed under Journey, Writing and tagged Art, Writing. You can follow any responses to this entry through the RSS 2.0 feed. You can skip to the end and leave a response. Pinging is currently not allowed.