A meeting attended
My name is not important and what is important is that I am a writer. Not a particularly good writer but I enjoy it. Sometimes I write after school or between classes. Sometimes I write late at night or early in the morning. Sometimes I am writing so early in the morning that sun is still asleep. I just write and write. I really can’t help myself. If it isn’t writing blogs it is writing comments on people’s home pages or real long winded letters to friends. Yes , my friends participate in this silent soul killing addiction.
I am the worst kind of writer. I am a very moody writer. Not only am I a moody writer but I like writing about moods. People moods, animal moods the mood of a city. Moods are fantastic because they are so fluid. You can’t see them or touch them but they affect every aspect of our lives.
Because moods have no shape or consistency they can endure a certain amount of maltreatment. I can swirl them into colors, turn them into zombies or puppies (or puppy zombies who literally nip at your heels) or even smells. When I write I do that often. My characters, my colors are just about emotion as the actually literal representations of them. It is not normal I know but for me it is art. I can’t draw an symetrical smiley face . But I can draw a picture in your mind of a smiley face and it will have buck teeth and a pirates cap and a poorly placed eye patch that inappropriately covers part of the forehead.
But the moodiness in writing goes beyond that. If I am happy it is a supernova of colors; an earth shattering event of fantasy and humor and mismatched metaphors. If I am sad it is a bleak colorless world. People and things don’t have features. The writing is surrounded with thought bubbles darkened by a heavy lines created by a pen that had been pressed down too hard . I watch as the edges of the bubbles are seeping into the panels below.
The worst is when I am bored. Then there is simply nothing. It is an empty train stop. My mind is stuck near the flickering light that is not bright enough to read by. There is a pained emptiness and retrieving the words and placing them on the paper is an impossible task. The sit there stuck in the concrete and mock me. They scream out to get my attention then laugh at me as my herculean efforts to wiggle them free leave me humbled. I end up usually end up sitting in a puddle of frustration.
Now you are sitting , reading this saying:
“Why? Why do you do this terrible thing? Haven’t you seen what writing does to a family? Don’t you see how the children of writers end up emotionally wrecked. Loved ones left starving while you furiously type away? Haven’t you seen the advertisements with the eggs and the frying pan? Haven’t you been subjected to the high school films with the once proud businessperson with a life with cars and multiple homes left with nothing but broken dreams and a well worn seat at coffee house?”