Restless Writing Syndrom

 

After reading quietly she is thrust into the mood that seems painfully familiar. Setting the worn book back among the piles and stacks of others on the shelf, she waits. Her love for all things written by human thoughts is insatiable. Her mood consumes her until she can hinder it no more. Only for a moment does she contemplate whether to put pen to paper heeding a quicker relief, or sprint to her medium of choice. Rushing out of the room, she is fueled by something untamable. She must write now. There is no more time to think, or dally. Her fingers must blaze along the keys, and her ears must hear that clicking come from the board. She must find a subject. She looks back into her conscious and spots it; herself. For so long has she attempted to utilize the fiction maker’s eye to witness her own actions from an outside view. Slowly she begins to type. She is aware of the words and actions taking place around her, but her mind is caught in the mood which cannot be cured until the writing is done to its content.

Intense longing for something tangible claws at her furiously until there is nothing more to do then attempt to settle the mood. She must write something and it must be good. No, it must fulfill demanding standards not even famous authors dare to hold themselves to.  The words produced from the intimacy between her fingers and the pen or the keys of the board are held to induce a kind of emotional result of the reader. She wishes nothing more than to make them feel the deep twinge of fear, rage, happiness, or sadness that her characters experience in their bewildering experiences. The readers will feel the pull of chaotic emotions the sweet emotions that flow from the words. She wants for their heart to beat faster as the action rises and their eyes to water as tragedy strikes.  She wants them to sigh in relief at a happy ending, and pace in suspense at a dreadfully intense cliffhanger. The reader must be engrossed in the story and truly find the meaning of her words that only find their purpose in dragging forward a profound feeling from the reader.

A writers mind is a warzone of names, verbs, descriptive scenes, and constant dialogue. These elements collide into a flawless image of and unfolding story. She must type, but her fingers scarcely move at a pace to keep time with the fury firestorm of ideas that beg to be released into words. After a sporadic instant of activity; there comes the time to read over the work.  Slowly she reads. Angering herself with the failure to capture the true emotion of the characters, she is frustrated again. This feeling to her is painfully familiar. Her sudden burst of inspiration is nothing more than purposeless determination now. The vivid pools of picture in her mind still seem so unreal, so untouchable. The words she has labored over are a pathetic attempt to paint the image. Not even close. The verbs lack vividness, the sentences lack flow. The characters are flat and, in literary terms, static and unchanging; the setting is unclear and the words present a blurry photograph of unstructured masses.

Expectations high and skill low. She curses herself. Nothing, there is nothing to lift her from this pit. A darkness in her mind envelopes her in annoyance and defiance; she see no other alternative. It is simply an impossibility to climb upward. She will never reach the expectations of her standards this way. Struggle and strain as she might there is no path to lead her straight up. There is a possibility however. Instead of the clear and defined notions of the obvious way out of the pit, there are a hundred, perhaps a thousand directions to move to dig herself out. Around her they are endless and the end is unclear, blocked by a fog of uncertainty. She can begin to walk, or she can stand upon the ground that she has been on for so long. She begins to walk. The uncertainty is thick, but her determination is no longer purposeless.

 

 

Sleep evades me again, and restlessness surges in. It makes itself comfortable in the forefront of my mind until I get my fix. It’s a drug, an addiction, a need for literature. I consider it unhealthy, really. Yet, there is no hindering the drive. In truth, I have no idea what to call it. Perhaps there is a word for it, this demanding urge. I take my pen, my pencil, my book, and I begin to write. What comes of it? I do not know most of the time. A sprinkle of words, a clamor of sentences; surely not satisfaction. Yes, I’ve got a story in me somewhere, sure maybe a few. For now though, this will do. A paragraph, a page, a fix for the surge, the urge, the craving.

 

This intimacy between us ridiculous. Or should I say the intimacy between me, myself, and I? There is a character in me somewhere just waiting. It’s slow, the way it unfolds. It reminds me of when I try to flatten the Hersey kisses wrappers into a perfect square without tearing the delicate foil.

I must be crazy. Most authors are found to be this way; insane (not to say that I am an author by any standards). Or maybe I am the most sane, or authors are even more san than those who observe nothing. I really don’t care. The world of madness is beautiful.

I feel as if I am connected to something. That I must find the words to put on print that must release everything at once and become an epic success. When I am in the mood, several symptoms of this delirium make themselves clear. My jaw tenses, I feel the need to move. If my fingers are not pressing against the clicking keyboard, then I must get up and pace my room endlessly. Music might calm me, therefore I always have my I-pod on hand. I find nothing though, to truly satisfy this strange feeling. I might literally shake with anxiousness if I do not find something to write about. Well, here I find myself writing again, trying desperately to hush my craving.

I sigh again and just type more senselessness. I should really find something useful to write about. I have a few stories and all, but I just can’t seem to extend the plot on any of them at this moment. How frustrating.

I think that if I do become and author, that I might write poems or short stories. I’ve found lately that I simply don’t have the patience to drag on a story or plot for four hundred pages like some of my favorite authors. It’s just torture. I find a scene of a great unwrapping story in my dreams or in something as simple as a fortune cookie fortune. I’ll build this fantastic idea around it, find names for the characters, even plot a few random scenes. However… this is short lived most times. This is simply due to the fact that when I see the story in my mind, I witness one particular scene; like the epic, dramatic moment that an entire movie or book is centered around and builds up to. I feel the crushing need to write that scene, to get it down and make it masterfully.

As the mood weakens now, my semi-conscious is already forming a new story from that fortune cookie fortune I mentioned earlier. Oh dear. Another one to rack my waking and sleeping hours. I must admit though, as much as I say I’m less than sane, and how this constant observing and figuring descriptions agonizes me because I lack the skill to complete it; I really and truly love it.

 

Reviews

[simplyjaded]

"A writers mind is a warzone of names, verbs, descriptive scenes, and constant dialogue. "- LOVE IT!

From your writing, I can feel your determination and your need for creativity. What an awesome way to express yourself. I know how frustrating it is when you have a million thoughts, plots, and ideas in your mind and you have a hard time getting them to paper. But that's the joy of writing. Don't be so hard on yourself and just keep your determination. Your writing is awesome and will only continue to excel.

I feel honored to see another side of you and have a peek into that pretty head of yours.

One more thing, I LOVE the line: "The world of madness is beautiful." That is the truth for sure. Great job! Keep up the good work!