Writing to me is a way to escape. An escape from a cold reality that is far too cold for a person to live in without getting damaged. Creative Writing has gotten me through everything in life. From fighting with my sister, losing my grandpa, to getting stabbed in the back, and the death of my grandma. Writing is a way for me to get out what I’m feeling without lashing out at those I care about.
I don’t think writers need to be reminded of our frail egos. The validation of a personal response on a rejection letter, getting an honorable mention in a contest, having our writing group say more positive than negative things are like life support to the tiny muse who so often goes Code Blue on our shoulders.
The lights go out, and all that is left is a microphone, a microphone stand, and a red rug, lit by a single spotlight.
If you are anything like me, you struggle with nerves and you have to force yourself to do the things that you want to do, and this scenario is the equivalent to seeing the Grim Reaper walk up to you, and point directly into your soul.
For the past couple of days, I have been feeling kind of down. You see, I am at the time in my life where the great majority of my friends are getting into serious relationships, and even getting married, while I have been single for a while with no real hope of finding anyone in the near future. I know what you may be thinking: what does this have to do with writing, or being creative in any sort of way? I promise though, I do have my reasoning.