Creative writing is wretched. It’s a path you sometimes wished you didn’t take. Here’s what it does to you.
It drives you to that point where you get crazy. Yes. Craze. You know that one that makes family members to panic and start check to out asylums? Yes, that one. Because you will find yourself:
- reading aloud,
- talking back at yourself,
- dramatising your characters’ actions,
- aiming for that perfect, distinct voice,
- weighing dialogues,
- giving them some space to breathe,
- asking questions like, if I were Sean, would I be talking and laughing this way?
How else is MADNESS perceived?
It pushes you to a point where you are seen wandering in deep stupor. And words fail you as much as you try to clothe them with elegance. You hate everything you write, give in and give up before a still, small voice sweet talks you into starting all over.
Loneliness. You find yourself sitting in public with friends and yet so alone. Your head is either busy. Or your hands are scribbling and sketching, friends chattering, connecting, having fun. You feel close to them, yet not so close because you’re out altogether by yourself, lost in a reality somewhere far away. Even when you try to drift your mind back, you can only, but see stories etched on their faces.
It gropes at your good health. How can it not? When sleep is tossed away because you need to sit up and punch the living daylight out of those buttons, all night long. Plus jettisoning food and rest. They don’t get it. Ideas just keep popping.
At the end, with the magical wand of a goodeditor, dotting all the i’s and crossing all thet’s, everything comes out in glorious shades of ‘something amazing’.
Just like a new born.
– Miracle Nwokedi