Warning, I'm writing this at 3:30am, so some of it might not make much sense... but it was promoted by two things:
1) A long-time writing buddy posted recently about writing experiences we *haven't* experienced.
2) Over the holidays, my dad asked me, out of the blue, at someone else's house, with no lead-up whatsoever, if I've been writing. In his experience, creative people either get fiercely motivated while experiencing emotional turmoil, or they get backed-up and can't do a thing.
From the conversation with my dad, I'm definitely the latter. I haven't written since early November, and I think other than (perhaps) the occasional blog post, it'll be a few weeks at least before anything other than simply-relaying-facts-or-thoughts come spewing forth from my fingers. But until now, I couldn't even do that much.
From my friend's post, I have been thinking a lot on that subject over the past year... especially how no one deals with a situation in the exact way that someone else will. I've learned a lot through self-examination, and actually surprised myself in many ways. Good, and bad.
As per my previous post about 'going dark' back in November, my head has been too full of thoughts to write. Oddly enough, I've had no problem with other creative activities like drawing or painting, disregarding the current physical limitations of my dominant arm not working properly, but that's something physio will eventually fix. What I mean is, doing that kind of activity has actually eased the noise in my head a little... but writing? Can't squeak out 50 words that could remotely be considered 'creative'.
Perhaps it's because drawing/painting is a different 'language' of output. There is no need for additional words/sentences/thoughts to interfere with the current storm.
Perhaps it's a limit of my dyslexic brain, because I can't fully commit 100% of my attention, the words are too scrambled up to put down in the correct order.
Perhaps I'm just emotional exhausted and don't have the energy to put myself in a character's head and experience their emotions as well.
Or perhaps I can't write someone else's story until I've figured out my own.
A further thought on my friend's post, how writing is "...a fumbling towards truths..." (great line by the way, eh?) no one can say that I write *myself* into my stories, but I do borrow from my own past, my own thoughts, my own feelings.
As writers, we can twist and mould our own experiences until they are nearly unrecognizable.
You don't have to have been raped to understand the emotion of betrayal, defilement, or terror. You don't have to lose a child to understand grief. You don't have to be an alcoholic to understand a pure desire that runs contrary to logical thought and self-preservation. You don't have to get physically beaten down to understand abuse or bullying.
And I think that, as a writer, eventually this past year will become fodder for new characters and new stories.
I hope it will, at least.
It is, perhaps, a stray thread of silver-lining.
What are your thoughts?