No new posts for a while. The writing world is a moving, powerful one, full of immense highs and bottomless lows of emotion. It’s also an unapologetic time hogg, demanding countless hours of hunch-backed concentration with fingers dancing spastically over the keyboard. Or poised, ready and waiting for the elusive muse like leaves holding still for a gust of wind to jolt them into life, which is usually more the case.
Unfortunately I have an affliction – I am addicted to keeping myself far too busy for the high demands of the writing life during certain periods of time. This is one of them. Whether it’s the extra hours spent whittling away at my high tech career building lasers, or the ceaseless attempts at making beautiful women fall hopelessly in love with me, or the all important, instantly forgotten drunken conversations at the bar late into the night, there is always something to prevent the necessary input of creation. How I love and lament this addiction to busyness!
I am also an expert, nay, professional escapism artist. Or rather, I would be, if I could find someone to create the profession. You see, I have an unquenchable thirst for stories. All stories. Any stories. I believe every single piece of art ever created tells a story – that art in itself is in essence story crafting. Whether your sculpting device is a pen, or a paint brush, or a computer or a guitar or pasta and glue it is all in service of the same end result – we want to show and we want to tell. We want to share with the world something inside of us.
I want to do that. We all do to some degree. But I have a stronger urge, the urge to devour every story by everyone, no matter what it is. And so I’ll find myself standing for 20 minutes in front of a shop window at a particular piece of colorful contemporary modern art envisioning the story, or nose-to-page deep in an old-smelling book of fiction as the sun sets and rises unnoticed. I’ll scour the depths of dungeons in video games immersed fully in the unraveling woven tales, or be mesmerized by the thickening plots of my favourite TV shows and movies. I’ll even sit for hours just listening to the soulful tracks of my favourite artists and greedily lap up every emotion.
I’ll consume it all. Give me your stories. Hell maybe I’ll actually create my own some day. That is, if I ever get over this addiction to mental stimulation. This burning need to be busy, to be social or working or chasing women or lost in fantasy worlds or drinking or dancing or anything, anything it seems, other than giving my time to the writing life.
I just don’t have the time.
And procrastination is -such- a dirty word.