Confession

The first thought I had this morning was to write a story. It was knocking at my brain, just below the surface and I felt ready to peel it off and so I started. And this feeling of paralysis overtook that same brain of mine and I placed the character of my story on the top floor of a building looking down at the city in a catatonic state. I was in a catatonic state of creation myself. I still tried to push further and make up some explanation for the frozen state my character and my mind was in: some sort of trauma, some sort of loss but the tension was still high and my mind strained. 

A suspense in search of a cause. Something plausible and breathtaking and not only the paralysis of fear. And yet, could not find it yet. Each paragraph was winding up the tension, more and more and the relief got further and further away from my grip.  And here I am, writing about my anxiety to write, the paralysing fear of opening up the lid of creativity. 

Now I sit here thinking if this happens also for other people when they write. That the feelings they have while writing are transposed on the pages and in their characters. That when the author is angry, no matter if he writes about love, friendship or generosity, the anger will sip through and dominate the entire scene. 

There are authors I like, that I feel close to and at home with, as old friends. And it does not even matter what they write about. The resonance I have with my favourite author can may be traced down to this transmutation of feeling and character into their writing. 

For the longest time, I have been keeping my writing under passwords and locks as a most intimate secret. Now that I decided to publish and share my writing, a paralysing anxiety seeps through from me to my characters and my story.

The peculiar thing I learnt about feelings is that they choose you and you do not choose them. And sometimes they are inappropriate, or overwhelming. Ever tried to bottle up a feeling or deny its existence, it only becomes stronger and overtakes your life. And it does that in sneaky ways, too. 

So what do I do about this anxiety. Is this the feeling I actually have about writing  or is the denying of some other feeling that causes this anxiety? I wonder if my characters are better than me at getting to the bottom of it and winding my story down. 

Only one way to find out: better get back to my story and give them their voice. So, on the top of the building, staring down at the city...

This is my confession.

I will be back...