I was unaware there was such a thing as a “vacation in one’s mind.” Calling myself a “cerebral person” would be a fairly kind, accurate assessment. While my writing physically manifests itself on my two-pound notebook computer (you know, if all goes as it’s supposed to), it spends just as much – if not more – time stewing in my head. I’m constantly thinking about my characters, and if I don’t have the novel weighing, I’m processing every captivating action performed in front of me and embedding physical details of locations into memory so I can use them in some capacity down the line. As such, it follows that my mind is something that never turns off. I didn’t realize that most humans don’t function like this, and that it’s essentially impossible to be functional when that’s the case.
Last week, I had an experience with my writing that I’ve never had before – visceral, full-bodied disgust (I swear there’s no word powerful enough for it). As far as I was concerned, my writing was abhorrent: I’d let my own fears and apprehensions compound to a point where they were no longer novelty or sources from which to draw motivation. They were uncontrollable, controlling paralysis that eclipsed everything I thought I knew about myself. Last Tuesday night I decided I hadn’t written the book that I’d wanted to. And I was authentically convinced that I was done with it.
I told very few people, but those in whom I did confide all had the same reaction: it was like I was standing before them in a floor-length, lilac-colored sundress, hair platinum blonde. It just wasn’t me. What I was saying had nothing to do with who I was – the person passionate and serious enough to have a finished novel at twenty-two. But I was a broken-down zombie: completely serious, a mind-controlled slave to the disgust.
I spent a week away from the text. But more importantly, I was so repulsed by the mere thought of it that I turned my entire consciousness off to writing. So emotionally drained from using my entire body to hate it, I was too exhausted to think.
A week later, I’ve reemerged (though not without some scars and conversations that were the literary equivalent of talking someone down from the ledge of the Brooklyn Bridge). I am feeling something I don’t recognize. I am not a person of moderation; I am a person of extremes. I’ve never confronted the middle of any situation or emotion because I’ve always written it off as unsatisfactory territory that meant I wasn’t pushing or wanting hard enough. But now, as I start to look at the text a little here, think about a scene a little there, I’m feeling something almost like placidity laced with a few nerves. And I’m in control over my emotions. Old habit is inclined to chalk it up to numbness, but I don’t think that’s it. Approaching with caution and not throwing every ounce of your humanity into something doesn’t mean that you’re not in it all the way, and I think that’s the single most important thing I have had to learn during the revision process. I suppose it probably seems really inane to most, but this is a full-scale revelation about not only my writing, but my entire life.
I have a lot to do, and a short timeframe in which to accomplish it if I want to utilize the incredible opportunities in front of me. However, I know I need to take care of myself again and not run myself down to the axles, or I won’t last long enough to be able to agonize. A person cannot live, let alone perform under such unrealistic pressure from self. I never want to reach a point like this again, and while there are no guarantees, not taking preventative, logical steps after having felt this way is inexcusable. Step by baby step. I’m serious. I have no other choice.
Exposing your vulnerability is a hell of a thing.
M
