No matter what anyone says, writing is an art and so I am an artist. I paint and draw outlandish tales with endless possibilities in combinations of heroes and sidekicks, plot twists and happy endings. I am the ruler and creator of entirely new lands, places I can immerse myself into and drown out the hum drum, monotonous motion of reality. Every time I write, I uncover a new, hidden secret about myself, unleash my chained opinions and expressions and live again in a new soul with the astonishing, beating heart that is my imagination.
Through my stories and extravagant designs, I lose myself in a fight to be conscious of the person I conceal inside my bodily boundaries. Pencil versus paper in an epic brawl to determine what it is I need to say, and then I begin with a clear, flawless image projected in my mind like a movie of the hopeful novel ahead of me only to realize that what I was trying to say had strayed behind fanciful, extraneous nonsense. Fiction and nonfiction spurt from my quivering hand into an unruly mess on the paper. For the millionth time, the character is not relatable, is hardy human, and unrealistic plots form regardless of my watchful eyes, and the setting is bland and nondescript. I am convinced it is inadequate and hideous. The saga I thought would unravel my deepest, innermost secrets refuses to scratch the surface. Stories tarry unrefined, unfinished shoved to the side, lost and forgotten, stacks collecting dust. A part of me is now lost to the world, hidden in some corner. Disheartened, I will stop writing for weeks, even months, before I attain the courage to try again only to be once more disappointed that I haven’t written what I anticipated to express. The story started strong, but crumpled in on itself like a twig contorting in agony in the fire. At times I think I’ll never achieve the work of art I hunger for. I panic that maybe I will never master myself, never be enlightened by the knowledge of who I really am. I am clueless as to the answers now and sometimes feel I may be destined to remain this way forever. Despite this, will I cease to write? I shudder to think what would happen. All my thoughts, beliefs, opinions, stories, words, would augment until my quavering corpse could no longer support the pressure. Predictably, I would spontaneously combust and what was left of my identity would now be grisly mush.
In that sense, writing is the art I have yet to master. I yearn to hold all its secrets in the palms of my hands and expose all the parts and pieces of myself, translating them into writing for other people to follow me down this path. Wishful thinking propels me forward into the unknown realm of creativity and imagination. It urges me to climb back up into my chair and write and write again until my soul is no longer a part of my body but a part of the paper. Story upon story, page upon page, I struggle on, creating characters who refuse to come to life and forcing them into innovative societies wound in authentically fabricated plots. I grapple with words and strive to reveal who I am for fear I may languish unless this intricate puzzle is deciphered. Searching for a writer’s Nirvana, I trudge along my path laid before me by pencil on paper.