[yes, yes, another of the sad back posts still coming your way…]
Oh my sweet friends of good intentions. A number of people have had advice on how to get better – because it’s what they do, or it’s what I’ve done to get over things in the past.
And I do appreciate it. Of course I appreciate the sentiment. Sometimes people are frustrated that my life is just standing totally still, and let me tell you, I am frustrated too!
But one of the questions I get a fair amount is if I’m still writing – writing music, writing plays, writing whatever. And the real answer is no.
I am *barely* writing this blog. (I am often not even writing in this blog! I am desperately trying to keep up falling *way* behind, sometimes just drafting something with bullet points, and posting it through tears, sometimes even weeks late because I am trying to hard to keep *some* sense of normalcy and *some* camaraderie with somebody out there somewhere, and because I *am* trying to still write soooooomething – not even a necessarily creative something or a something that I even know the point of, but still writing out feelings.
But am I writing things with narratives or rhyme schemes and such? No I am not.
And of course it is breaking my heart. I have always written through pain. I have written through happiness, of course too. I have just written a lot, period.
On my first day at BMI, I had over a page full of ideas for possibilities for our first song prompt before we even got to the BMI bar after class.
And now? Now I can’t come up with an idea to save my life.
People keep saying that if I open my imagine or write out pain, I’ll feel better, or that real writers write no matter what. But I can’t do it.
[Edited to add: I feel so so so so bad that I couldn’t just write like everybody thought I should be able to when I first wrote this, but it shouldn’t have been surprising though, because if we go back to that time, it’s like I can’t do anything. I’m hardly functioning as a person. How am I supposed to write a song when it takes every piece of strength inside me to make it to my job? It feels like I run a 5k just to get the energy to actually brush my teeth.]
Ans it’s just crushing that I can’t do it. I can’t do anything. I don’t know how.
I’m hoping to goodness that starting BMI in the fall will help, but I can’t even begin to think that far ahead right now.
And another thing that people wonder is if I’m gonna write about sexual assault now – like in musicals or spec scripts, and the answer is I don’t know…
I would like it if I didn’t. I don’t want it to define my life. But at the same time, all of this needs to be talked about, and if I can find a creative way to do it, I might.
Also, if you look at everything I wrote in the *years* after open-heart surgery – some partially completed projects, some fully-drafted ones, even just a page of ideas, almost all of them had a major medical issue in there somewhere.
That’s what was on my mind at the time.
And people do say write what you know. So, I don’t know! I don’t know what I’ll be capable of writing. I just know right now I’m not, and no matter how hard I say I should or try to disciple myself or whatever, I can’t do it. So, we’ll see.
But for the time being, no. I’m not writing.