On Writers and the Nature of Mental Instability

How funny it is that the writers all come from some kind of dysfunctional environment. We all have our demons, we all have the selves we have tried to bury deep, but didn't succeed.  We all are wearing masks, which come down when we write and when we put down on paper our real selves.

Have you ever met a writer who is a happy person?  With white picket fenced 3 bdrm, 2 bath, 2 car garage house, 2.5 children and a dog, perfect husband, a white collar worker, and the writer herself is a happy chipper stay at home mom, feeling completely fulfilled in her perfect Stepford Wife/Martha Stewart role?  Her parents, the middle class, peppy, normal, mentally stable and happily married even until now, organizing the family reunions in their house in Connecticut or Martha's Vineyard?  

No you haven't, and if you did, this writer is hiding behind the happy mask and is on the way to the mental breakdown, or is not a very good writer.  Why would a happy-go-lucky Physical Therapist want to write anything?  She'd rather spend time watching Entertainment Tonight or Dancing With The Stars and feel content eating badly prepared greasy overly sweet Chinese takeout and think she's had her fill of being multicultural for now.

The writers are creatures with the overactive imagination, bordering on mental disease or actually suffering from it.  The writers are conquering their idiosyncrasies one day at a time and are praying that whoever lives with them doesn't up and leave because they are fed up of putting up with all this daily insanity.  The writers are bleeding inside and are writing out their wounds with their own blood on paper as a way to heal themselves, whether their work will be seen or not.  The paper or monitor becomes a channel to God, the pen or keystrokes -- the prayer through our fingers.  The paper doesn't judge, it tolerates anything.  Sometimes it's our only friend who doesn't ostracize or recoil from our blubbering hysteria.

The writers all suffer, but try to grow from their suffering.  And the other normal, shiny, happy people, owe it to us, to learn from our mistakes and lessons without actually having to experience any of those on their own skin.

Fear of Writing -- Fear of Letting Go

The assignment for the creative writing class is to write 200 words on my fear of writing.

Why am I afraid to write?  Why am I paralyzed with the block?  The feeling of hands clamped over my mouth, trying to keep in the nasty words from escaping.  If I let go and find the courage to write what is truly in my mind, in my heart, the dark sinkhole,  the black hole, sucking all the goodness into itself, what will the world see of me?

All the things that I have kept successfully most of the time inside, all the hurt, the pain, the crazy thoughts of different ways to die, from driving full speed into a wall to jumping out of the window, the worry about the world collapsing around me, the ground literally cracking and plunging deep into the magma regions, the murderous images of plunging knives deep into chests, the blood splattering from the bullet, my hands squeezing someone's throat.  All the images flashing in my my mind in the moments of anger, of desperation, of  losing my mind.  The whole world will know what I am inside. 

No hiding behind the mask, the facade of the always well-organized, calm, chipper, professional, even-tone-of -voice teacher. Respectful, looked up to, example for emulating.  The whole world will see the rotten core of me, the flesh eaten by maggots of evil, the heart like the painting of Salvador Dali "The Face of War".

That’s why the fear of writing: If I open my mouth, I’ll open the lid keeping all the boiling craziness inside of me, and then – duck!

A Collection of My Own Profound Thoughts

Procrastinating. Have so much to do, but maybe blogging will lift my mood. 

The following is a collection of the extremely intelligent thoughts that have stricken me in the most inconvenient moments requiring me to stop whatever I was doing at the moment and write them down.  And this was a very long sentence with lots of different clauses and phrases.  Feel free to borrow and quote my wonderful pearls of wisdom after paying ROYALTIES, for all of the following is COPYRIGHT PROTECTED.

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I can't hide the fact that I'm that girl with a pen and a notebook, rushing to write down some smart thought which struck her right in the middle of a conversation. I can't hide the fact that I am that girl who is sitting on a park bench staring at a distance with a faraway look and then frantically scribbling something in her notebook.  

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Writing is like a prayer -- you have to be utterly candid about your innermost darkest thoughts and selfish desires.

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I like thinking.  In fact, I like thinking too much.  And I am narcissistic enough to think that my thoughts are profound enough to be put on paper.

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I feel so much better going through the day with my eyes closed, not opened.

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I didn't make the decision, the decision made me.

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When you open yourself to your heart, it's like falling in love again.

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Don't put your happiness in someone else's hands.

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I'm not positive, I'm just trying not to be negative.

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There's this creepy feeling of being completely out of place, out of sorts.  I don't belong here.  I feel like a cutout stuck on a wrong canvas in a collage.

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It's easy to hide behind a sarcastic, self-deprecating remark, but to put raw unembellished emotions on page -- is a courageous feat.

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And stop carrying anger wrapped around yourself like a cocoon.
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He kissed her into submission.

Regaining What Was Lost

I am cheating a little, for this post was taken from my Writer's Journal and written on January 20, 2010, right after I started taking the online Creative Writing course.

How is it that as a child, I instinctively knew how to tap into my creativity? My journal was a yellowed old notebook with experience, with character. The pen had to be the fountain pen, again suggesting the old writer's spirit, the quill in a way. My dream desk, never acquired, was a heavy mahogany table upholstered with green velvet, solid, able to last through the ages.

I had no inner judge then; I just sat down and wrote what came to my mind, just believing that it was worthy (even though I am sure at times it wasn't). I escaped into my writing, I created characters in a new world, I spent my waking life just thinking of my plot and future events in my stories.

Then it all ended abruptly as I had to change my country, my language, my identity. I have to truly breathe in English in order to be able to write creatively in this language, and I don't feel that I've reached this point yet even after 15 years of living here.

I think in metaphors. I feel in pictures. I live like a character in my own novel, my thoughts constantly running and narrating without ever reaching the paper.

Maybe some day my dream will come true and I will write something. An account of my personal identity crisis. A collection of essays on essence of marriage and coping with the overly imaginative mind. A book of inspirational poems.

Whatever it is, I hope and pray that I can do it, that I have the tenacity and courage.

Who am I to write?

OMG - this was written a long time ago, fall 2009. How far have I come!  I am ACTUALLY pursuing my dream right now AND I'm going to be PUBLISHED in the Buffalo News!

Isn't it lame that the only follower of my blog is myself? Well what do I want? I haven't written anything worth reading, nor do I want anyone to read what I'm writing. It's just ramblings after all.


But write I do want, and it's my dream...


In search of any creative writing workshops/classes in Buffalo I found only online classes. For only $89 I can learn how to be a Travel Writer or how to Write a Life Story. But the point is, I need people to share my writing with, not the computer. Moving on to looking for any kind of creative/journal writing online, I get the same result, "Purchase this program and you will write your therapy journal and observe your progress, as featured on TV...", "For paid members, we offer online workshops...", "Buy hardcover journals for only $19.95...", blah... blah... blah...


I just want to write, not PAY for it. It gets even worse when I try to find a book on creative writing at the library. I think that THEY. JUST. DON'T. EXIST! Now if I wanted to actually PUBLISH something, there's a lot of help in that. Publishing children's books, romance writing, fiction writing, writing AND PUBLISHING about your life for retired and postmenopausal geriatrics, getting an agent, a publisher, and editor, etc. etc. etc.


GAH! I WANT to write, I truly do, but I just don't get any inspiration. Nor do I think that what I have to say actually matters. I'm not as funny, or creative, or interesting as other people. I never got cured of cancer by Jesus, never taught overseas, never adopted an autistic child from Cambodia, never climbed Mt. Everest, never shook Dalai Lama's hand, never was on TV or even radio... I AM BORING! AND I lead a boring life! Describe myself in three words: I own a house, I'm married, I got a cat, oh yes, and I teach ESL. What's that? You're saying that's more than three words? Smart alecs. I know. But the point is that that's all there is. BORING.


I just want to get out of here.