“Writing is a socially acceptable form of schizophrenia.” -E.L. Doctorow
Perhaps this couldn’t be a book. Perhaps this should have never been a book. It’s been written, re-written and ripped apart. This book is a representation of my life. It’s been re-written, invented, picked apart and re-structured to fit the opposite of what you think is normal. But I’m telling you, I don’t want to be normal. What is normal, anyway? I think that’s what I’m most afraid of. I’m afraid of being labeled and I’m afraid of being average. I’m afraid that this book is everything I am. Just a microcosm of what exists within me and around me. If only I wasn’t tormented by the thought of you, yeah you. I think it would have been easier to take these pages and throw them away so that not a soul would read them, not even you. Maybe you wouldn’t judge me. Maybe you’d grow to love me. Whether I want to face it or not, if I threw away these pages then I’d probably see it as a cop out- an excuse to avoid my fears. But I can’t be afraid of the power that a thought has when triggered by a memory and ignited by a pen. That alone has always been an unnerving plea to get away, go away, or just be who I always dreamed to be without actually getting away, going away or dreaming. Sometimes I’m just too damn complicated. I can’t stand the thought of figuring myself out. You should stay away, really.
They’ve already won the war.
These words on these pages and these pages in this book have already
won the war.
Absolutely lost in thought, I wrote this one night just after I had spent the night locked away in my room working on the book I’ve been writing. I wrote this as writer who is in the process of writing and a writer who has come to terms with the final product, mostly fearful of what her reader will think and fearful of her intentions as a writer. There is something eerily peaceful about writing at night. The advantage of writing when the city is asleep offers a sensation that can’t be described easily. I suppose releasing ideas onto a piece of paper stimulates a feeling of fulfillment just before sunrise before emptiness becomes a part of me again. Being alone with my thoughts in a place with dim lighting offers the kind of comfort I love.
Although writing is a lonely occupation, most writers will tell you that they are hardly ever alone. It’s their thoughts that keep them company. I always embrace these thoughts as good company. I’m sometimes interrupted by a flood of thoughts never reaching an end until this little voice in my head emerges. I’ve learned to listen to this voice and all of the other noisy chatter going on in my mind. It’s the greatest thing any writer could hope for. Insanity can strike at any time and you can never estimate at which speed these ideas will be travelling at, which is why I carry a notebook around now. There have been times where I have frantically looked for anything to write on fearful that this little voice of compiling thoughts would betray me, causing the demise of these thoughts. I’ve been so desperate at times that I’ve written on my desk, on tiny sticky notes and on anything in my path of madness. I’ve written in the smallest font known to man in order to fit all my ideas on a gum wrapper. I haven’t attacked my walls yet. Let’s hope I never have to. It’s like a high I get. My head goes numb and my eyes fixate themselves on the keyboard or on a piece of paper. I rarely even look at what I’m writing. I just write and write and write. I wouldn’t trade this feeling for anything in the world. I could spend the rest of my life in this cocoon of thought.
Is this borderline insanity? Perhaps. I can’t help it though. When insanity strikes I can’t ignore it. When these ideas invade my mind I can’t ignore them. I love the feeling when it happens. When I’m writing, I’m a million different people all at once in a million different places. It’s crazy where your mind can take you sometimes, if you allow it to. It’s liberating and lovely.