It didn’t take me long to learn that there are many types of writers. The prolific, the not-so-prolific, those that are good at beginning things, good at ending things, good at short stories, good at long stories, those that write all the time, those that struggle to feel motivated to write hardly at all. The list continues.
I am one of the prolific writers. Perhaps infuriatingly prolific writers. Who churns out pages and pages of content seemingly without significant obstruction.
Because, quite frankly, I am obsessed with it. Not that other writers aren’t obsessed. Writing is hard. We all have to be obsessed with it at least a little to make it a part of our lives.
For me, if I do not write almost constantly, I get heartsick. I tense up, I get restless and unstable and lose my ability to concentrate on anything else. The longer I put it off in favor of homework or other obligations, the worse it gets.
Usually, I take an afternoon/evening Friday sabbath and an all-day Saturday sabbath each week. Friday is to do whatever the heck I want to do as far as wandering around outside, going out to have coffee with friends, watching movies, that sort of stuff. Saturday is writing day. A time to satiate this fundamental, burning need. I’ll spend all day writing, editing, storyplanning (and drawing, because when I say “writing,” storytelling may be a little more accurate).
If you want a better chance of getting me out and about, talk to me on Friday.
Because Saturday is writing day.
Saturday is writing day.
But when my schedule does not permit this? I hate it, for one. Absolutely despise it. It’s cruel and unfair and I cannot get myself to accept such a state. If anything, other things adjust to make room so that writing may remain constant. Other needs suffer in the long run, not writing.
Because there is always a point where it will not be denied anymore. It just takes over.
Like clockwork, this day ends up being Sunday, when I actually need to be working on all the homework I’ve been neglecting. But I can’t do anything until the weight is off my shoulders, out of my lungs, my heart, my brain. I am literally tied up until I have devoted at least a good 2 to 3 hours to some form of storytelling. (Usually through writing/doodling) But even then it’s not enough. Sure, it’s enough to put it off for a little bit, but I can still feel the need, slowly welling back up, constricting my throat, cutting off my ability to think or look at anything as more than a waste of time and energy–even when I value those other pursuits.
(In fact, this blog post is probably a prime example of the manifestation of this writing need taking over when I should be devoting my attention elsewhere, even after I spent a good two hours writing this afternoon.)
I am very seldom at a point where I can purely focus on homework. When I have nothing else needing to be drawn or written. I do homework to get it done. Sometimes I enjoy it. And I hope I learn as much as possible from it. But when it starts obstructing my ability to write, by either sucking up too much time or too much energy, it has severely overstepped its boundaries and needs to learn its place or I will kill it. (I’m at that point right now, actually.)
If anybody has ever envied my writer type, know that it’s a stressful existence. There are few other desires. All time is time to write. That is all I ever want to be doing. It interferes with schoolwork, with taking in new stories through reading/watching things, it dictates my social energy levels and interest. It’s a factor in pretty much everything I do. I cannot relax unless I have time to write. I write because I can’t not.
I can’t function without it. It is breathing. If anything interferes, it is suffocating, draining, panic-inducing.
Perhaps this is why I’m trying to make telling stories–writing, drawing–my career. So I can sustain myself financially the same way I sustain myself emotionally and psychologically.
And 8 weeks remain of my undergraduate degree. 8 busy, writing-choking weeks.
So far, the prevailing phrases in my vernacular are “I can’t be bothered to [fill in the blank].” and “I quit.”
I guess we’ll see what happens. Graduation is going to have to take place at the end of this semester–I will literally not stay here any longer than I have to.
Because I have stuff to write, dangit.