Before I am Famous

literature is something we infer after the story is told

My Escape

Posted on | January 22, 2008 |

Solace for me is not the bottom of a glass bottle nor some kind of substance that can be smoked, snorted or eaten. No, solace for me is writing. It has always been writing. For someone who teeter-tottered on the brink of depression, writing is the only place where I could go away, to a world I created.

I remember writing stories and poems at a very young age and I am not talking about school assignments. The very first time I picked up a pen and just wrote for the sake of writing was when I was 11 years old. I just moved from Pennsylvania to Delaware, with the move I started a new school and a move from elementary school to middle. It was in class and I was bored, instead of taking notes or doing math problems I jotted little poems. In 6th grade I started to write stories as well. Apparently, middle school was a catalyst for my love of words.

I had an English teacher, a young fresh out of college teacher and she encouraged creativety to the full extent. She introduced me to journal writing, nothing was off limits. The class had to write in the journals every day. I wrote in mine instead of yakking about what I done that day, I made of this whole radio show complete with commercials. While my “radio show” was wacky there was a problem with the classical music people, they wanted me off the air. My teacher loved it and told me one day I am going to be a writer.

Life continues, by the time I turned 13 my stories took a dramatic turn from child’s play to horror but not Fear Street, R.L. Stine horror, but something darker, more sinister more adult. There were no limits in my stories, they were twisted and sick as some might assume. Who knows these stories could be a direct reflection of the difficulties of school. Not the class work, the social aspect of school.

I turned 14 and we moved from Delaware to New Hampshire. Now I started writing longer and more frequent. But not as many stories but poems, at this time I wrote at least a poem a day and in my journal. Though my friends at the time said they liked my poems, I felt they were crap. I didn’t think I was any good but for some reason, I couldn’t stop writing no matter how bad I thought my work was.

In eleventh grade, another teacher discovered I had some talent, if you want to call it that. At this time, I tossed writing to the curb, I was tired of it, angry with it. Then the Huck Finn project came along. The assignment, in a group write a screenplay based on the character of Huckleberry Finn and make a movie. At first I told my group, I will not write this at all. As the the writers at the time started to write, I just thought it was all wrong. The one member looks at me and told me to write it and I did. Something emerged from that assignment, pride in my work and a re-emergence of a darker side to my writing. The teacher knew I wrote it all and gave the project almost a 100. I was reinspired to write again.

With this advent of a new writing day, my obessession or my craziness in mind came flooding back. Endless nights of writing because I had to finish the story or waking in the middle of the night just to write something. Voices of characters not yet written raced through my head.  I wrote steadily for a couple more years and then I quit again save for the occasional poem or partial story.

At this time, I was in my early 20’s, the feelings of not being any good resurfaced and I knew I was done with writing. I tried writing stories when I donated plasma but the magic wasn’t there nor was the drive. The stories in this time frame were never finished and to this day I can’t bring myself to write them. When I wanted to write again because I missed it, I felt that I had the dreaded writer’s block. Really it wasn’t just I felt that I had lost the spark again.

I tried something new, I forced writing. I have never done this before because I always believed you could never force something to the surface from with in. It seemed to work, the more crap I wrote there was one little gem that with a little polish could shine.

Coming back to the present, here I am with the dying need to write again to point of obssession once again. I have spent sleepless nights writing and toiling over my work. I think about writing all day long and like person craving that cigarette I become irriatated when I don’t write.

I wonder, how many people are like me? Writing is a big part of me it almost seems like it is me. Are we just wavering on the brink of sanity day in and day out? If I couldn’t write anymore is day I never want to think about. If I never become published or never become famous that is acceptable but if I could never write again, I better be dead.
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Category: thoughtful essays

Comments

No Responses to “My Escape”

  1. Ethan Christ
    January 22nd, 2008 @ 1:16 am

    We started out with just a pen
    a subtle noise
    a quite den
    We wrote our minds out every time
    every thought
    every line
    We laughed as they tried to bind us
    we didn’t cry
    we didn’t fuss
    We didn’t even attempt to care
    As long as they had paper to spare.

  2. Dadu
    January 22nd, 2008 @ 4:08 pm

    It is wonderful to have a passion

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