It's official. I've hit a brick wall in my writing. And it sucks. Big time.
Now, before you ask the obvious question: I know why I've hit the wall, but that doesn't necessarily change anything.
Lately, I've been poring over my next move, money, going back to school, body issues, family stuff, looking for a job... All of that makes it harder to concentrate on working on fictional people and their lives - especially when just 24 hours ago ideas were sparking and igniting amazing riffs of magic and music and light and fire and genius and.... God! You shoulda been there. My crazed face had enough insanity to make Andy Warhol and Jackson Pollock suggest that I see a doctor.
Anyway, this is what I'm thinking about: I used to think that I was talented at writing precisely because of my ability to compartmentalize. I was able to lead separate lives - school, home, social circle 1, social circle 2, et al. - and the people who lived in my imagination were simply an extension of all that. Having different identities for dealing with each facet of my life surely helped.
But now my life is more homogenized. I've broken the holy grail of my old social schematic by introducing key players of different social circles. Everything seems fluid and easy. There is no separation of information about moi. There are no compartments, per se. There is only one world to deal with, one real set of problems, and one agenda. All this breaks down my daily routine and makes me feel sane and emotionally healthy.
Sounds great, right?
Well, yes and no.
On the real life tip, it's awesome. There are no secrets, no real privacy. I am only one person. There is no inner conflict, no push and pull between different parts, no dissonant flavors within the buffet that is my life.
On the artistic side, it's not so awesome. I need secrets. I need real privacy. I need to be able to ascertain different sides of me, different sides of situations, and how they coalesce and combine into something that resembles Life.
To stick with my food metaphor: What I have now is shit. Literally. It's post-processed, all the nutrients taken out, compost-fertilizer. It's useful and healthy, yes. But I can't verify the components. I can't gain much in the way of personal wellness. I can only plant gardens and maybe tell if there's a corn kernel in there or if I ate beets....
Maybe I took that metaphor too far.
Anyway, the point is, this whole transparency thing ain't good for my writing mojo. My greatest fear about psycho-therapy is being realized: apparently, just as my egotistical ramblings have topped out and I've become a good, decent, happy, healthy, and mentally stable person, I've lost my ability to create.
Is it worth the trade?
I dunno.
I definitely won't be attempting to regain my aforementioned literary prowess via drugs, sex and alcohol - so cliche! - but that's only because I'll be too busy staying awake, exercising my ass off - literally! - reading like a maniac, and writing academic papers.
Why?, you ask.
Well, partially it's because I need to continue using parts of my brain that haven't been utilized since taking a break from formal academics. Mostly, it's because I think I'm going back to Brooklyn College to finish up my Philosophy-Creative Writing dual major. I have to get back to prime student state. I want to fulfill all of my unused potential as a scholar. And, yeah, I wanna be able to out-run, out-fight, out-swim anyone, any time. All this is part of a bigger plan to be happy here in NYC.
Oh, the pain and humor of it all....
See, I was totally set on leaving behind the ivied walls of BC for going back to my roots in the Philippines. I had many reasons - a need for a change of scene, lack of funds to continue higher education in the states, a desire to get to know my extended family and my culture, an opportunity to teach English in an orphanage - but then a judge decided that I owe too much money, and that I've been so irresponsible with my handling of finances that I shouldn't be allowed to leave the country until I've sufficiently paid off my bills.
My boss lady, who I love to death - despite differences that might have plagued my opinion of her had this been three years ago - offered to hook me up with credit counseling and extra funds. My mother hooked me up with her finance lawyer. My father decided to ink a deal with the legal authorities, stating that he would take responsibility for my financial dealings, which would therefore lead to my ability to leave the country.
But somehow, even though only a short time has passed between the judge's ruling and my subsequent short-term depression, I've had a change of heart about leaving the country. I want to handle my responsibilities by actually handling my responsibilities - as opposed to letting Mommy and Daddy handle them for me. I want to close this chapter of my life - the BC, English-major chapter - by getting a degree in that field even though I know damn well that I can't earn any more money with it than I'm earning now. I want to earn my nursing degree via my mom's union - free tuition, y'all! - so that I can make a lot more money than I'm making now. And I want to parlay that money into sound investments, real estate, a small business or two, and several college degrees to boot.
Somehow, in the short time that's elapsed since the judge said I can't leave the country, I've decided I don't want to leave the country.
Maybe it's because I've revived and strengthened many relationships because of my financial ordeal. Maybe it's because I now have the option of earning two bachelor's degrees in two years. Maybe it's because I've been having really strange glimpses of moments I've forgotten - my life flashing before my eyes? - and I'm paranoid about a dream that Texti had. Maybe it's because I have a deep faith that I'll regain my writing momentum and that I'll have a manuscript or two to peddle.
I'm not too sure.
But I'm taking in more Life than I'm writing about. I've become the listener, the one who'll let you rattle and ramble till you've run out of words - just because I'd rather bust a move than talk. (Oh, and because I think highly of you and value your insight. That, too. Of course.) And when I do write, it's explosive and impressive and I wonder if I'm dreaming or if I'm delusional about actually finishing what I've started.
I've started planting roots. I've started to take things more seriously. No more fucking around about my health (I really wanna be able to kick some serious arse when provoked) or my relationships (oh, the responses to my letters!) or my writing career. (Yes, career. That's exactly what it is, damnit.) No more passively taking things in and regurgitating them solely for the purpose of writing. (I've been watching the last season of Sex and the City on cable, and it's amazing how many things I didn't catch the first time around!) No more forgetting that relationships are a secret. (A reference to my newest favorite author.)
I'm busier than ever, and I'm only gonna get busier. Wish me luck.
