It’s been said that the definition of an artist is someone who creates pieces of art (be they paintings, sculpture, music, or writing) not because they necessarily want to, but because they have to. Their soul demands it, and if they are not nurturing that part of themselves regularly, part of their essential self begins to die. Their relationships suffer from it. They get depressed, but it would be hard for them to explain why to a non-artist. At least that’s been my experience over the last decade plus since high school ended and my own artistic endeavors came to a full stop.
I’m a writer at heart, or at least I used to be. It wasn’t so long ago that I was constantly writing poems, short stories, and a handful of unfinished novels. When I wasn’t writing, I was thinking about new ideas or editing in my head, and when I wasn’t doing that I was talking about writing. Or at least the things I wanted to write.
Then life happened. With a vengeance, you might say. I’ve gone through a few things in the past decade and a half, and between marriage and kids taking up more and more of my time, and my health going into decline, I’m not where I used to be. I can’t sit down at the computer whenever I feel like it and let my fingers dance over the keyboard while my mind wanders into fantastic territory.
The “problem,” as it were, is that the ideas have never stopped coming. The urge to write hasn’t gone away so much as the ability. Between injury, medications, fatigue, and just general depression, I have built up a dam in front of my creative soul, and all of those thoughts and urges have been trapped for so long. Some of the ideas are bound to have rotted away by now.
So I’ve put myself to the task of training myself to write again. Just as I spent over a year and a half learning to walk again, I’m going to write something every day and see where it takes me. These won’t be my own ideas as such, at least to begin with, but instead, I’ll be taking cues from writing prompts and seeing where they go.