I write (and paint) to create stories that will survive me. I obsess over death, finality, and want to nurture, maintain life.
But right now, I feel hurt, frustrated, anxious, and sad. Because I can’t live up to my own standards. And I can’t let go of my standards; I wish I could. I know I want to be in a place that I can relax into and feel good about. That space of creation. But I falter, I resist, I procrastinate and withdraw.
I don’t like groups. Writers’ groups, art groups, etc. I never fit in. To me, groups have their own agenda, own rules, and regulations, own way of doing things and you have to play that game. So, I stand outside, without recognition, doing my own weird stuff. And that is all I can do, BUT I stand alone and it is hard. I am driven to do the stuff I like but I have no audience (except you). And then that is not quite true because I have people reading my blogs, my drafts in class, etc.
I keep wanting to send stories to different on-line journals, lit magazines, etc. which I think I should just stop. It doesn’t go anywhere. Right now, I’m in a space of giving up, exhaling, telling myself, I’m not capable. Yes, I know, that is pathetic. But I lose interest, I lose passion. Yes, I can write and write and write. But then what? I need to see some kind of direction and even a goal out there. How do I let that feeling go?
The authors, painters, who were driven, fiercely driven by their passions, did burn up, drank to death, shot themselves, became mentally ill, or were otherwise, deeply disturbed.
My body, my mind, and my emotions are deeply conflicted, and that’s what I want to write about. But it hurts, and I can’t breathe a ‘normal’ life. Suicidal thoughts. Isolation. All part of being a writer.