Writing is just like a muscle; one must use it or lose it. Write or get rusty when writing once more. Stop using a muscle and the muscle grows weak. The first draft is never the final draft; pieces will be tossed aside, and more superior words will be used. To build muscle one must break down the muscle so that the muscle can be rebuilt stronger. Writing is the muscle of a writer and a writer who does not write is more than just a weak writer. A writer who does not write is a monster courting insanity, according to Franz Kafka. He is not wrong. I should know. I am one such writer.
I once heard that there are two types of crazy people; those who end up in insane asylums and those who write. I was a writer who wrote, now I am doing everything I can to keep out of the asylum. I stopped writing a month ago. One published book was all I had to my name. I did all I could to promote it but never got much for it. The only people who checked it out were my parents. They supported me but they were the only ones. I know other authors who published more than me. They had better support and actually gained fans who were not family or friend based. Their stories took off. Mine has not.
I tried writing more than just my book. It was a novella. Too short to be a novel but just barely fits the novella title. My poems have not received high praise despite what my parents say. My short stories have not received much interest. Nothing I write seems to matter to anyone else. I tried writing just for me, thinking that if only I were to read my writing it would be enough. It was not.
My writing is how I express myself. My writing is when I take my thoughts and creativity and turn it into a piece of artwork. Not everyone can be a good artist, but everyone can enjoy doing it. I thought I could let myself enjoy creating my stories even if my stories were not enjoyed by others. The truth is that I want to share my work with others. I want to share what is going on in my mind. I want others to understand me and the craziness that I have inside of me. I want to feel heard and understood. Is there anyone who does not?
I stopped writing a month ago. I can feel the walls closing in. The voices will not be quiet. No one else can hear them. No one else can see what is going on around me. No one else can recognize what I describe when I tell them how I am feeling. No one else can help me escape from my own thoughts. No one can help me and if I am not careful, I will end up in an asylum like all the other crazies who do not write.
I need to write again. I need to put pen to paper or type out the words on a computer. Something, anything, any form of writing. That is my only escape. That is the only thing that can save me from falling any further. That is the only thing left to do before it is too late. Is it too late? Will I know when it is too late? I have to write.
I have a pen and paper. Just write a word. Just start with a word. Now add another. Good, now another. Just keep writing. I know it hurts, it physically hurts, but it will get better. This muscle just has not been used in a while. Just push through and write. See? Already feeling a little bit better. The voices are quieter since we wrote them out onto the paper. Just keep writing. Do not stop writing.