Behind The Writer

This was inspired by a conversation I had with a very close friend of mine. It is a true story.

“Why do writers write? Because it isn't there.”

-       Thomas Berger

 “Most of the basic material a writer works with is acquired before the age of fifteen.”

- Willa Cather

 

I haven’t met a writer that wasn’t messed up in one-way or another. I’m sure somewhere out in the world, there are happy writers who have never experienced hardship and write for simply the love of writing. I’m not one of them.  In my mind, writing is an acquired taste.  I don’t think anyone is born loving to write, some may be predisposed to it, I am sure, but no one is born loving it. I myself remember groaning and mumbling when my teacher announced that it was writing time, not wanting to waste my time putting on to paper words I could say in half the time if I spoke.  Despite being a voracious reader, I didn’t like writing.  I found it to be slow, tedious work that was a waste of effort. Obviously, my views have since then changed.

 I think that all writers have the writing bug lying dormant in their body. A bad event, one in which the writer is desperately seeking for any escape, triggers the bug.  I know which event triggered mine. I was 13 at the time, a relatively happy, carefree teenage girl, note the was. It was that year that I changed, that year was the year I found writing. “What you must understand about me is that I’m a deeply unhappy person.” ― John Green, Looking for Alaska. That statement became true when I was in 7^th grade. I remember the day my mother told me that we were going to Germany for five months. “It will be fun.” She said. “It will be a learning experience.” It sure was one heck of a learning experience, just not the kind my mom intended.

I wasn’t happy at all in Germany. I was living my worst nightmare. As an introvert, I’ve always had trouble making friends. When we left for Germany, I had to leave my few friends and my dog behind.  I was completely and utterly alone. The entire time I was there, I didn’t make one single friend. How could I? I was in survival mode, focusing more on coping than social niceties. School gave me panic attacks, I cried myself to sleep at night, dreading the next day.

My mother and my brother, on the other hand, were very happy in Germany. My brother was obnoxiously happy, I’m pretty sure he was rubbing it in my face. They didn’t seem to notice that while they were laughing and joking and having a good time, I was retreating further and further into myself, folding up into my shell, disappearing.  As I closed up, I trapped all my emotions inside as well. There was no outlet for them, they just kept building up and building up, stacking higher and higher, filling my tiny shell.

During lunch I sat alone in the hallway by my math classroom, reading. I ran out of things to read so I did the next best thing, I wrote things. It was a natural switch. I carried a composition notebook everywhere I went, I used it to jot down assignments as well as random thoughts and ideas. One day at lunch, I had finished my book and I was bored. I took out my notebook and started drawing but that didn’t entertain me for long as I quickly ran out of inspiration. So, I wrote down a thought that I had in my head and I “followed” it, writing all the thoughts stemming from it down, thinking on paper. Soon I had filled almost 3 sheets with tiny print and the lunch period was over. I did the same thing the next day and the day after that. Gradually, I stopped “following” thoughts and started writing the starts of stories and poems. I was looking back through that notebook a few days ago and I came across one entry that struck me. Across the top of the page, written in thin, black ink were the words, “Write A Letter You Could Never Send”. My letter almost made me cry.

“Dear World,
Why is my life so messed up? Anyone in their right mind would want the opportunity I have but all I want to do is go home. I want to be back at my house, in the backyard with Moby, training a new trick or just playing fetch. I want to take long walks on familiar streets and pass by houses of people I know. I want to be able to text my friends when I've had a bad day. I want to be there for them when they need me but instead I'm stuck over here. When I cry, I want a soft, snuffly nose to come and nudge me, comfort me as my tears fall, but here there is nothing. Here there is only black, dark aloneness, waiting to swallow me up. I used to be happy, laughing, fun. Now I'm shut down, sad, quiet. I'm gone, not an imprint of my old self remains. I want to laugh with my friends, talking about things we did in the past but instead I am here, hiding behind a mask. People here don't know me, can't see when I cry. If I was back home, my best friend would see the pain inside. But here I have no friends, I don't even try. I read to escape but I can't escape anymore. The books I read now are as dark as I feel. And when I cry out for help, no one hears me call. They ignore it and say I'm fine and watch as I fall. My writing keeps getting darker and the ideas more serious, no longer light-hearted and fun. I can't stop it, no matter how I try. I just want to be home, with no more need to cry. I want to feel Moby's soft golden fur under my fingers, to wake up in a sunny room, my room. I want to see my familiar walls, their periwinkle blue. I want to check my phone and see a text from my friend complaining about school. I want things to be normal to know what's coming next but instead I am stuck here, half way around the world, across the ocean. I want people to speak my language, to be able to understand them. I want to be able to finally relax after months and months of stressing. But even now as I let the tears fall, I feel no release from the anxiety, it's cold fingers gripping at my heart. I want to be in a place I know, I want to be home, I want to be somewhere I can walk blind-folded, where I know how to get home no matter where I am. I want to be able to call my friend on the weekend and walk the dogs up to the local ice cream place and get out favorite, mint chocolate-chip. That can't happen because I am stuck here. I've given up hope of ever being happy again and the choking feeling blocking your throat when you are about to cry never goes away. The people who know me online probably know me better than the people here who know me in real life because I am honest about my feelings online, not hiding them and pretending everything is fine and is going to be alright and that I'm doing very well because I'm not. I'm not even coping and no one, not even my mom seems to notice that. They don't notice how I sit quietly in a corner or how I cry myself to sleep at night. They don't notice how I never really laugh and how I've sunken inside my shell. I want to be home, to have my school alarm go off in the morning and take the dog out before biking off to my familiar, safe school. I want to say hi to my teachers, I want to have my classes back. I want the same, wonderful classes I had back home, taught by the teachers I know, not some complete stranger who stands up in front of the class and lectures us all day. I want the comfort of knowing my schedule by heart, of being able to do it in my sleep, of knowing the building inside out but instead I get lost and can't find my way. I'm trapped in a maze of expectations that I can't meet. I can't be happy, I can't "make the best of it", I can't do well enough in school, I can't cope over here. I want to be home with the same routine every day. I want to take my dog on long walks when I'm upset, walks that stretch on for hours, never getting monotonous, always peaceful, but, instead I am here, cooped up in this place where I know nothing. I want to hold him close when I have nightmares, feel his soft fur against my wet, tear stained face. I want the comfort of him sleeping next to me, his warm sides rising and falling as he breathes, curled up against my back but when I wake, I am alone. Alone with my thoughts racing and no way to calm them and so I write. I write dark, depressing poems and stories because that's how I feel. I want to be free, free of the bonds holding my to this cruel, sarcastic world where people promise me things that never happen, where my only wish is never granted. How hard is it to get me home if that's all I want? Apparently, too hard.”

One thing that might clarify the letter, Moby was my dog at the time. He was my everything; we were bonded at the hip and always together.

            I don’t know how I made it through those five months, I really don’t. It marked the beginning of my downwards spiral. I would stay up until five or six or seven in the morning on weekends so that I would sleep all day and I wouldn’t have to interact with people, including my family.  I would write and write and write some more because there was no other way for me to cope. I got blisters on my fingers from writing things by hand for hours at a time. My blisters got so bad that it was downright painful to hold a pen or pencil but I kept writing, because I had to, because I needed to. Writing was my lifeline, the only thing that kept me partially sane those long months as I wasted away.  I lived in the world I wrote, I hated my reality and so I used my pen for escape until even it offered no more shelter. Then I used it to let out all my pent-up emotions, all the anger, the confusion, the pain, the sorrow, I wrote it all, I wrote to survive. My only goal was to survive, to make it home,

            Through my experience in Germany, I arrived at this conclusion. Writing is something that you learn to love, at the same time, it is addictive. Once you are hooked, the writing bug never leaves you. You get hooked when you are all alone in the world, when you turn to writing because you have nothing else left to turn to. When that happens, you become a writer.

 

Author's Note

I know the letter should be paragraphed but I copied it exactly the way I wrote it when I was 13 so ignore that. What do you think? I know it's horribly written, any suggestions for improvements are greatly appreciated. Did it evoke any reaction at all? Are you one of the few, elusive, has always been happy writers? If so, show yourself, I'd love to meet you.

Reviews

[Legolas]

Wow. I remember this conversation vividly. I'm glad you wrote it out. I've already kind of told you my thoughts on this. It was both interesting and heartbreaking to read that letter.
Writing is a way of coping. It lets out thoughts from our minds and puts it to paper.
I can relate to almost all of the feelings in this.
I have always written. Mostly the start of novels. I was intrigued by the idea of writing a book like the authors I loved to read. It was merely a hopeless dream. About a year ago, I started writing seriously. Putting emotion into my words. Letting my feelings escape onto paper. It allowed my mind to escape from...thoughts...for the duration of writing. I have started novels, most of them based on personal experience but the main character having things that I do not. Aside from another other way of coping that I have, writing has been my only way of coping. My only escape. I can make those fictional worlds I dream of living in come to life. Imagine myself as a different person. A person who means something. A person who is important. A person who is accepted. Alas, these worlds in which I dream of don't exist and never will exist. The closest I will ever come to those worlds is dreaming/imagining them and writing about them.

Sorry for rambling on. I really did enjoy this although it was heartbreaking to read.

[Isabelle Faye]

As do I, it was quite a memorable conversation. I needed to write it out, until I talked to you I hadn't really dealt with my emotions and feeling, I had pushed them deep inside me and buried it. I went through the same experience when I read the letter. It was all this raw, uncapped pain and longing and it brought back floods of very bad memories. I remember writing the letter, I was alone in my room, curled up in a corner, wedged between the bed and the wall. I was crying, writing it made me cry. I remember how the tears fell down, wetting the lined paper, blurring the words as they clouded my eyes. Writing certainly is a way of coping. I wish I didn't have to use it now to cope with the events of many years ago though. It is an intriguing idea, I was enticed by it as well. Many dreams start as hopeless ones but transition into something more. Sometimes the best thing you can do to yourself is to stop thinking. That's why I sit alone in the dark listening to the rain fall on the roof, focusing only on that, trying to escape my thought. Thoughts make you who you are but they can also be your worst enemy. It is easiest to write from experience or from wondering, for your mind has explored those the most. I started one book based off of a thought that I had, coincidentally, I titled it "Only Thought". Anyways, back on topic, it is by far the best way way to cope, the other way has some drawbacks and it is addicting. I often dream of escaping into my fictional, fantasy world but we have had this conversation already. It is so tempting to want to become a different person, to have a different life, a different past, to be special. If only fantasy worlds would be real, then I wouldn't be in this one. That is the closest anyone will ever come unfortunately.

Don't be sorry, I'm glad that my writing made you want to write your response. I'm really really happy that you like it.

[Legolas]

i'm happy you're happy.

[Isabelle Faye]

I'm happy that my being happy makes you happy.

[Anna]

I connected with what you wrote, just because its so true. It made me really sad, but wow I really hope life has improved. I don't know what to say if it hasn't, but I would love if you'd message me- like seriously. I don't get that moved by work that often :')

[Isabelle Faye]

Well, life has improved in some ways but not in others. I am glad that my writing touched my soul.

[Riley Bray]

Honestly, after reading that, I have no words. Right now my heart is pounding painfully against my rib cage in one of those strange moments when it feels as if it will cease to beat from the strain, honestly. I must say though, that I am proud that if you are unable to express these feelings in the world truly around you, you still have some sort of outline in which to, even if its momentarily, be free. I want you to know that I want you to continue to trust me, Isabelle, and I want to know these things about you. I care about you, always have. I cant let someone I still consider to be my sister slip through my fingers and flow away from me for the rest of our lives. So, then, miss Isabelle, lets go to the ice cream store together soon, my treat.

[Blue Belle]

I loved your essay. It is very inspiring.

[Wolfwind]

First off, I'd just like to day that in now way shape or form is your work here, horribly written. It has a solid consciousness about it, as if the words are reaching out and speaking directly into our minds.
I would have to say that I fall into that happy writer box. Even though I didn't write much until high school, I always enjoyed it when I did. It was a way for me to create worlds that books or movies couldn't find for me. While it's true everyone has hardships in life, those happened far later in life, not when I started writing. Both poetry and story writing happened more after highschool, as stories freed my imagination and poetry let me understand my emotions. But through it all, even when I was putting to ink, something dark or emotionally grey, I've always enjoyed playing with words and ink.

Thanks for sharing your work. It was well worth reading in my opinion.

Aaron

[Isabelle Faye]

Thank you. Reading it over again, it doesn't seem to be as weakly written as I thought it was when I posted it. It isn't my strongest work though. You are a very lucky person then. It was the same for me. Well, it was a way for me to be in charge, to create worlds where I could control the ending.

Thank you. I enjoyed reading your review and I'm glad to hear your opinion.