Here I come, a writer monomaniacal in intent, though I too have my excuses. As a novice, I was taught best write about the things you know. I did, though it wasn't long before I grew cocky in my skills. Perhaps to hide the ocean of things that remained (and remain) un-known to me. Gradually, I transitioned from writing things which I knew to things I didn't know how to talk about.
I was a mere teenager then and even more unskilled around people than I am today. So I wrote then of all the things under the sun. I wrote of feelings and sex and politics and ideas, some new, most borrowed. In penning out the things I could not speak, I really came into my own. I blossomed as a writer and devoured the praise. It might not seem like it to you, but there are few things more arresting to a shy teenager than being complimented for the things she can't say.
But then I grew old. Worse, I outgrew my timidity, and learned how to speak a tongue of my own. Borrowed, at first, but that was only suitable since most of the thoughts I longed to discuss weren't entirely my own, either.
In time, I learned how to talk of sex and sometimes even love. I developed a skill for debates, and learned like most grown-ups how to deftly conceal all the things I don't quite know.
It came, in my personal life, as a great improvement, though also a blow to my writer's arsenal. Suddenly, all the things I could only express in writing had been aired and done with. Which begged the question...
...what to write next?
I went back to the Old School. Started writing what I knew. Cause I'd gotten a biteen older by now and knew a couple more things. But I also couldn't give up the schtik, the trade that earned me my first praise.
It was then that writing became quite special to me. I started writing of the things I really know, yet can't speak. I got into long periods, like now, of returning obsessively to the things I dared not speak. That either I could not, or the world refused to hear. And it worked different.
Starting out, I'd a terror of baring my soul to the world. But growing up, I got a glimpse under the table and found there were things much scarier . Cruel. Perhaps ironic. Now, I've no trouble being bare, as long as I don't have to peer under the table I'm writing on. It is, I reckon, a worthwhile trade, albeit temporary.
It is where I am in this journey of creative transformation. And even though my journey can't be complete before I face my monsters, I will take my sweet time here.
For all, even my damnedest obsessions, are only transitory.
There will come a time when there no longer even is a table. And that will be my time. I don't know how I might continue writing then, but I take comfort in knowing I'm not yet supposed to. Perhaps I will be on my feet. Perhaps on all fours. Perhaps the boogey men will have got me.
Until then, I lean back. In this rickety old chair. Think, as I am, of the next sentence.
This hits home. I feel like I've run out of things to say. But the question is, is that really the case? Or have I just forgotten how to say them, because I don't have the time?
We hired this guy at work a couple of years ago. I like him. He's an insanely talented pipe-maker and a great abstract artist as well. But he talks. He talks so much. It's indescribable. One of those people who will talk over anything you say, bring up a question that's totally ancillary to a point you're trying to make and then start researching that question on his phone right in front of you. Anything resembling the back-and-forth of a normal conversation is impossible.
I have a two hour commute both ways, and I'll go the whole way without listening to music, podcasts, or anything, because I just need that silence. I play white noise to drown out the conversations around me on the train and stare out the window, or sleep.
I'm with this guy eight hours a day, more than I'm with my wife, and he never stops talking. The sheer number of words that come out of his mouth. I don't think he's ever had a thought that he hasn't vocalized.
I've barely written a word since we hired him. I've barely read a word, because when I have a spare moment, the last thing I want is more words. I feel like my own personality is dissolving in the attempt to respond in a way that doesn't seem rude.
I just can't help feeling that I had something left to write about, but I can't remember what it was.
But you're doing this full time. You continue to be an inspiration. Three huge books and you haven't stopped yet. I don't think you will. Just keep some quiet around you and there will always be something new to explore. Even that boogey man, he's just more grist for your mill. So long as he doens't talk too much.
<3 It's so good to see you.
Have you tried telling him all this? I imagine making yourself heard by someone like that can be hard (almost typed "heard" there xd), but if you manage to break through to him, maybe things will improve. I don't think anyone wants to be the reason someone else is dissolving. Or feels like it.
Alternatively, I'm not sure what the work etiquette is at your place, but could you get away with wearing headphones? "I really wanna listen to this" type thing? You don't have to actually listen to anything, of course, but it might invite some silence.
Needing silence is something that really resonates with me, so what you're going through sounds just... awful. Knowing what a gifted, brilliant writer you are makes it worse. I really think it's a shame for someone like you not to express themselves, so I really hope you find a solution.
Thank you for the kind words and the support, my dear. <3
That means a lot. Thank you.
If I said something, he'd brush it off or think I'm kidding. I've occasionally asked for silence in order to get something done, and it's lasted about 30 seconds. I'm afraid if I really got through to him, he would be seriously offended and it would make working so closely pretty awkward. I don't think he realizes how much he talks. For him, it's indistinguishable from thinking.
Headphones are out, because if I'm working in the back I need to keep an ear towards the front for customers. It's best when he's out front helping someone; the customer can absorb his talking and he's actually a great salesman. But if any more customers arrive, I need to go out there because he'll be too embroiled with the first to help anyone else.
The boss and I take turns having little mental breakdowns about it.
Who knows? I'm probably just using it as an excuse to not write as much as I'd like, which in the end is on me.
It's interesting that he hasn't come up against this problem before. You'd imagine someone would've pointed it out by now...
After all, a better focus point, whether it's true or not. Always better to look at the things you can change. So far, I find the need comes back in good time. To write. To put things down. So who knows?
Interesting choice of words there, though. "As much as I'd like". Not "want". So it's not you setting out a goal (as we sometimes do) to write, but expressing a desire to do so? Could it be there's some inner fear or uncertainty stopping you?
Maybe coming back to something that's natural feels weird after a long break?
(just trying to help here!) :)
Your help - and your example - do more than you know! <3