WRITING: Sane People Need Not Apply

Ah writing, the therapy session without the time restriction, the fantasy boyfriend who asks, “What are you thinking about?” The mother that tells me to keep trying, the father that tells me to prove…EVERYTHING.
The closet with a million shoes, all in my size.
The mirror with many faces. The immaculate conception taking shape with each page. The nursery full of children who all have my eyes.
My Twilight Zone, my Dr. Who, my personal wormhole, burrowing through space and time. The faithful friend, my arch nemesis. The sadistic personal trainer. My cordless power tool. My thorn-less rose garden. My punishment, my reward. My paradise, my prison. The habit I can’t kick, the dangerous affair that I can’t end.

Makes No sense whatsoever, right? Welcome to the world of the writer. I can’t really explain how much of myself I put into my writing, but it’s more than a pound of flesh. Self-insertion is one of the deadly sins of writing, but does that still apply if EVERY SINGLE character in the story is you? Writing is for the bipolar, for those who can’t make up their minds and for those who are never satisfied with “just because” as an answer. Every writer I’ve come across is out of their damn mind and I am head over heels in love with them all—a bunch of head cases roaming the streets among the masses. Why do you think so many writers drink and do drugs? To quiet the voices, to put the demon to sleep.

Want proof? Who else would read the same book 200 times and still laugh at the same scenes? Who else would get out of a sound sleep to write down a witty tag line? Who would recite dialogue aloud? Who would abandon friends and family for the solace of a computer screen? Who else hears voices in their head or stare off into space, imagining an awesome fight scene. Who cries when a character you created dies? What sense does that make? You’re the writer, just bring them back. I’m sure God has the same dilemma, and much so like Him, we know what’s best for the grand scheme of things.

Think of the movie Quills. The Marquis de Sade was the biggest perv on the planet, but he was a writer through and through. Nothing could stop him from getting the final word, so to speak.

So yes, don’t expect to be understood, because you won’t. Just know that there are plenty of nut jobs keeping you company in that padded cell.