Thinking more of the writer

THE WRITER’S LIFE

I’m getting to know myself, and more of who I am, all over again. Occasionally my solitary life forces me to do that, like a brain reboot after a depressive episode. It’s happened before but it’s one of those traumatic things you tend not to remember until it hits again. It’s becoming reacquainted with the whom…

IcebergAbove and below the waterline: what I write, and what’s in my mind.

It’s a meeting convened inside the mind, between factions who have to always occupy the same space, so dialogue and understanding become survival, when a lesser mind might wish to end the conflict by giving up on life. I’ve been there before, when a voice constantly reminded me of the inevitability of death. But then I went off to learn what happens when we die from science, and I wrote about it. For this latest encounter, I became mediator of my own mind again.

For the conversation to start, I needed to withdraw to the theatre of conflict: My brain. And therein is where I needed to go, to work out what’s been up with me lately, as the field I surveyed was quite empty: I actually didn’t have enough on my mind to keep it functionally occupied. Just as I’m capable of seeing most situations from an outside perspective (in fiction, and the issues others have), sometimes it’s hard to transcend my own mind.

An above-average IQ is nice, but it can be a poisoned chalice and sometimes the host of the mind can’t see the woods for the trees (The Girl with the Snake Scarf is a fairy tale about finding a third way: A coping mechanism for others, and for me as I wrote it. Sometimes my own stories help me as a reader to look into my mind, to see how it was on a previous setting.) My problem was, I’d split into two. The writer had become separate from my depressed other self, and had separation anxiety from its own ideas factory.

Inside myself is not a good place to be if I don’t have enough thoughts to distract me. It makes the issues I need to address more stark. That inner world travels with me and if I’m only thinking of myself, I’m paranoid of my surroundings and the people therein. But if I go out and my inner writer is working on various projects, I feel more personally confident. So I am. The writer interrogated the other mind’s depths, and came up with some stories. I confronted the thoughts, rather than flee. I had to, as they were in my head and there’s a writer in there too, who can help get them out.

I’ve plotted and begun writing three new shorts, coming to an eZine soon, and included in a third anthology I’m planning (as yet untitled). There’s a tale of human consciousness as a virus (perhaps you wish could be cured, so you didn’t have to think about how awful your species is). There’s another, where life on earth is an accident, and no other life exists anywhere in the universe. Depressingly dark ideas on first inspection, but they’ll be tales with likely twists or surprises, as happens when the author spoke into the black mirror of a cracked mind.

Cyrus Song (the eBook) got taken up on the free offer a few times on World Book Day: Not huge numbers, but enough to tell me that someone is reading it, a complete stranger, somewhere unknown. And that’s a kind of magic, that’s why I write.

What would be the point of leading the rest of whatever life I have left, in a quiet and orderly manner? None at all. Life is not a singularity, and even the most introverted ones want to be shared.

An active mind fuels my insomnia, but rather a lucid mind than a dead one, empty of all but inward reflections. Inside my head is a universal microcosm. If I feel low about myself, that encourages the paranoia I have of how others see me. It’s a self-propelled paradox.

I’m writing this late at night, and working on those new short stories. I’m actually sitting in a scene I could imagine for a story, but which I don’t have to, because I’m in it: A writer, sitting in front of a window, illuminated by a desk lamp and writing on a typewriter. The moths look in, and seem eager to read what I’m writing.

We make our home under piles of words, we make friends amidst the pages of books and we find comfort in between a full stop and the next capital letter. We feel in italics and reflect in capitals. With an obsession for the written word and words dangling from our fingers, yes, we’re writers.” Aayushi Yadav, from “Inside A Writer’s Mind”.

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