Life gets in the way sometimes and even though writing is my lifeblood I find I don’t have the time to do it as I wish. Such is life? Such is an excuse really, but that is what fickle artist like to say as well. Currently, we’re in the middle of moving cities and it’s always a delicate balance of many strings that have to be pulled to make the dance cohesive.
As uprooted as I felt a few months ago, that feeling doesn’t compare to the uphill battle I’m currently facing.
I love my story, I miss ‘talking’ to my characters and I also am a big baby who has to be in the mood to write. If I’m not happy, I can’t focus because I’m too busy pouting. If I’m sad, I just want to watch trashy tv and mope about. When I am happy, I feel a devilish current race through and it begs to be utilized. That is when I want to write till my fingers bleed.
Not that I can compare myself to Virginia Woolf, not even in the slightest smidgen in all the world. I simply understand her process while watching The Hours. If this was true to form I imagine it was, I mean she was incredibly tormented.
When I was younger, I only used to write when I was sad, thinking this would produce depths from my soul that I could not begin to understand while happy. Now, I am older and understand what rubbish this is. Happy or sad, in either state my senses experience emotion and that is what I can draw from. I don’t wish to have negative experiences be the only way I can communicate.
Either way, all this to say sometimes I wish I had more time to write. Just writing this out now was incredibly therapeutic and I do believe I’ve put myself in the mood. Buggers that I literally have to dash off.
Time, you are forever my enemy, I can do nothing to slow you and you still progress like a soldier trotting on regardless of wordless pleas.