I have a confession to make. I am a writer and sometimes I am a little mad. Or actually, on second thought. What I meant to say is that sometimes, I can be a little normal.
It’s really no surprise really. Writing is a traumatising experience; Think about it. Just you, in a room, helplessly alone, with It. You stare at it with a blank expression and it stares back with a blank page. Its cursor blinking, taunting; ‘I’m waiting.’ Did I mention you are alone?
Before you know it, hours has gone by and you are still here, staring, and It stares back with that hypnotising blinking line.Still just a blank page. ‘Ok I got nothing’, you relent. ‘But I’m not finished with you, you think you’ve won? No. Cause I’ll be back.’ You threatens. It shows no emotion. It is not capable of emotions. The cursor simply blinks again. ‘I know, I’m counting on it.’
It’s not kidding, that you know. It never kids.
Fast forward a few weeks. By some act of god you manages to over come the impossible. What use to be a deadly pale blank page, has been transformed into a crazed clutter of letters. With relief and joy you show your new born baby to others hoping someone will celebrate with you its very existence. Yet the best response you’ll get is; “good”. ‘Am I missing something?’ You wonder. ‘Do they not see how beautiful she is? Do they not see her cute little nose and dove like eyes?’
For all their good intentions, just “good”? Remembering to wash your hand when you come out of the bathroom is ‘good’. Having enough money on your card to pay for coffee is ‘good’. Knowing to put on condom before sex is ‘good’. But creating a world with characters that lives and breaths out of nothing is not just ‘good’. For all the blood you freely poured out since its conception to birth this is a bloody miracle.
But no one would care for that. Apart from a few pats on the back from fellow mad men and mad women, its back to the drawing board, that, by the way, reads the chopping board. Put your baby in the middle. Not too far left, not too far right, just square in the middle. And with one swift chomp …
If only things were that easy.
You close your eyes afraid to watch what you’ve done to your brain child, you run away, you escape, prolonging the inevitable even though you know it’s for the best.
And eventually you will go back. Back to that bloody mess of a drawing board. That reads the chopping board. You’ll see the mess and you will cry out ‘What have I done?!’. But what else could you have done? Pulling together, you take out It again. The silicons whirls to life. A blank page stares at you, ‘I’m waiting” It taunts. Calmly, you stare back ‘I know. I’m counting on it. Cause I’m getting my baby back.’