More than a year ago I started work on a scifi novel. I was rather enjoying the work. Seeing things come alive. And more than anything, taking on a whole new respect for the authors I admire and enjoy.
The amount of detail and work that goes into painting an entire world from scratch... it's just astounding and overwhelming. You have to keep telling yourself that you have to describe all the details of what you are seeing in your head, but you can't get so caught up that it destroys the flow of the narrative.
That is quite the balance to attempt.With that you must make it sound intelligent, and for me there needs to be a casual fun bit to it. Don't take yourself too seriously, but make it believable.
And in all of this... I discovered... you must have a destination in mind.
My first chapter was written purely off the cuff as I went. There is still no finished story arc. No plot outlined. No conflict and resolution. And worse yet, it's been so long that I am going to have to relearn my own character names.
Damned leaky memory...
But the worst part has been that I just haven't felt the inspiration and motivation that is required. My self confidence evaporated, despite the encouragement of those who have read the first chapter.
And more recently, despite the good front I have been reconstructing, my mind and heart have just been in a very bad place. I've just been really good at faking the rest.
It's amazing how easy it is sometimes to just slam the door shut. Sit down behind the wall. Remind yourself that as long as no one see's the darkness inside, then it's not really there. No matter how many times you cry your self to sleep. Because even then it doesn't matter... since there is no one there to see or hear it.
I imagine it is quite like when the body dies, parts just shut down, you move through the motions as best you can until you just can't. Except this is with your soul and mind. You just move through the day, crippled in whatever way is strongest that day, until you just can't move anymore and you just lay down and let it overtake until you no longer stir.
The one interesting thing is that in this my narrative voice seems to have returned, albeit in a very tired and meh sort of way.
So, I am trying to turn it from a sad clown into something useful.
To quote a friend, "find a way to harness the anger and release it". But I want to make sure that when I release the anger and self hatred inside that instead of spewing negative into the world I want it to be something positive, even if it is just an amateur novel.
One thing is very clear though... this vile hatred, the rage at not just my physical state of disaster and disgust, but an emotional anger that is just not healthy for anyone.
It's funny that I can wrap my mind around it. I can understand it, and see what needs to change, but I can do a damn thing about it.
It's like my mind knows the plan and what to do and so is headed in one direction... but my heart and soul are still at war with each other. The knowledge of who I am, that I am gay, the feeling that it somehow means I am less than everyone else. That when you add my physical failure to my emotional and sexual self failure, then what could there possibly be here worth loving or having in any ones life.
With these two titans raging and pulling at opposite ends I am left torn to tatters.
I said once that I sometimes wonder if I forgot to come out to myself, I fear now that not only have I not come out to myself but I have built such a wall of shame in my heart that I'll never be able to accept who I am. Physical or Emotional.
So it leaves me just mystified when I talk to my friends, and when they must endure yet another emotional crack in my wall. A breakdown in the facade, when they begin to tell me that they see a good guy, kind, caring, wonderful, worthy person...
My instincts tell me to look behind me because they couldn't possibly be seeing me. Can't they see what I see when I look in the mirror?
Don't they see the weak willed fool who can't keep to a diet, can't even walk for any distance or stand for more than 5 or 10 minutes at a time?
Don't they see the man that is inside that is a complete wreck of vile hatred?
What of the guy who is so totally lacking in self confidence that the idea of anything more than a friendship is terrifying? Where a compliment must be discounted, batted to the side. Dodged. Those are not allowed.
They can't be true. They don't see the inside. The part behind the wall that is truly worthless and should just be heaved overboard once and for all to just stop the pointless torment day in and day out.
So much rage. So much doubt. Nowhere for it to go but inwards. Grounding ones self to only the rarest of outings or social gatherings. Because to venture into a night club where I could actually dance in a way that I have wanted for so many years and simply denied myself because of self doubt of my body, and now because I can't even stand long enough to finish a song.
Who wants to go through all of that. But still I know there must be something on the other side of it, to push through to get to it. If only I could shut the voice up screaming inside that keeps reminding me that I'm not worth that reward.
Somewhere in here is the voice that wants to be heard from the darkness. The part that holds what little spark there is left that flickers in the cold dark cavernous wind of a soul. A soul too long tormented and nearing the point of inability to stand against the raging storm...
It is the same voice that I write with, the one with the words that just flow out, even if the grammar is no where near perfect. The meaning comes out somehow.
Something yearning to be freed in such a full way that it almost shouts down the demons inside. Almost.
The struggle to find my inner author to simply continue is one I am not used to dealing with. I don't know how to craft the instant response so well anymore. Relying on bits of recycled comments from here and there blended into daily life as if they are my own.
I must find the good humor side. The one that is creative, random, and witty.
There are some very feeble attempts flying into the web via my twitter page lately. And I guess I will keep at it until I see and feel like I have any kind of standing again.
And maybe just maybe someday once I have found a better balance so as to not spew the poison into a work that would simply drip with it, I might be able to write something of interest, or at least of merit in achievement.
So I guess this is my attempt to kick down a section of wall. To let a bit of light and visibility shine into the pit of pain inside. I've no idea if it is a cry for attention, an attempt to expel some of the internal pressure, a seeking of pity, or just simply filling the need to vent some tiny bit out of my heart before it tears me completely down and I'm left sitting crying and rocking in the corner while I'm at work one night...