When I started writing again a couple of years ago, someone asked me if I could be satisfied with just writing -- even if no one ever read my work.
The answer at the time was -- No.
But that answer was colored by my previous experience. For two reasons, it wasn't worth doing just for the creativeness of it.
1.) I had horrible work habits. I'd write and rewrite and start over and obsessively change an entire page because of a single small correction. I wore myself out.
2.) The technology sucked and it was more expensive than I could really afford.
Typewriters. Fucking typewriters.
You have no idea.
But things have changed. I've worked out more reasonable work methods. I'm much more mature about it.
And the word processing programs make things so easy.
So the answer has changed. Now I would -- I will --- write even if I knew -- know -- that no one would -- will -- read it.
I mean, it's an impulse. I can't help it.
There was a moment today when I was sitting in a chair and I was living in the world I'm creating. I mean, my mind was in both places at the same time and I was aware of it and it was a very pleasant experience.
What I'm trying to say is that it took me out of myself -- to a very nice space. The world I'm creating, but also just that zone between reality and fantasy, where everything seems possible. It's part of the soul, drawn out and savored.
Everyone probably should have some creative outlet. Something.
I was missing it and didn't even know it.
5 hours ago