I have always loved to write, for as long as I can remember. If there ever was an art form I fully appreciated, this is it.
All my life, I wrote incessantly, on everything I could think of, on every surface I could reach.
Then.. I decided that writing must become my work.
I put a different kind of energy and focus into it.
I started to think of it terms of structure.
I started to practice it instead of letting it naturally come to me.
And every time I wrote anything I thought anyone would read I treated my writing as a performance. A rehearsed play.
I cannot say that all the dedication hasn’t helped professionally but it has taken the art out of writing. The joy of writing.
The activity that the little me did just because it was the most entertaining thing I could think of has been drained out of me, by me.
And I only now realize how idiotic that is.
Time was I believed imagination was the only tool a writer really needed, now I think in terms of research, quotes, phrasing and story structure. That’s all well and good, but does it mean I cannot write simply because I want to? Just to experience the high of creating and perhaps, destroying characters.
When was it, exactly, that I stopped appreciating fiction and decided that only a true story merits my attention? I’d like to call it an ill of the trade but I would be lying.
I’m guilty of being horridly elitist with my own writing.
Even this blog, which was supposed to be “only for fun” writing, is not being used as an outlet for the writer.
When did I decide that my sole purpose was to be a recorder of the facts whose own voice remains a mere croak buried deep within the music? And why?
I may never know, but at least I will know when it stopped.