I am just emerging from one of those stressful periods in life that come along every so often. One of those periods when you wake up in the mornings with your heart racing and your mind whirring. Days filled with tasks that are both mentally and emotionally draining.
The date of my previous blog shows how I’ve failed to keep up with my posts on here. You might naturally expect that, at a time such as this, I wouldn’t have managed to keep up with my fiction writing either. I wouldn’t have had the time. I wouldn’t have had the inclination. I wouldn’t have had the creative energy. I wouldn’t have been able to muster the concentration. I wouldn’t have had the inspiration.
This expectation, however, would assume two things that aren’t true. One, that external circumstances have to be conducive to writing in order for it to happen. Two, that writing for me is a hobby: something I do to unwind or to occupy myself with when there’s nothing else that requires my attention. For me, writing isn’t like that. Writing is something I need to do, come rain or shine.
It’s true I haven’t been in the right frame of mind to blog for a while. I’ve steered clear of writing that involves any kind of personal reflection, because life itself has foisted enough of that upon me. But, when the chips are down, I’ve found writing fiction to be not just a basic necessity, but positively beneficial to my mental and emotional well being.
This is true for a number of reasons. Like physical exercise, writing focuses the mind on something other than the problems you face. Writing fiction, in particular, focuses the mind on something unreal, which is a wonderful let up for a mind beleaguered by reality.
Writing fiction, like reading, is an escape. It’s a better form of escape than watching TV because it requires a far deeper level of concentration and engagement. It requires, to a degree, a suspension of the conscious mind, or, at least, a conversation between the conscious and the subconscious. If this means that some of the anxieties from your life may leak into your fiction, they must be allowed to do so only in the service of your story.
That is why writing fiction, as opposed to life writing, isn’t therapeutic in terms of catharsis or self-expression. But, in terms of a meditative experience, an imaginative release and an exercise in problem solving, it is brilliantly effective self-medicated therapy.
When I enrolled on my masters degree in creative writing, it was following the most stressful period of my life. At the time I wasn’t sure I’d be able to cope, but attending those weekly lectures and undertaking those writing exercises and workshopping my work and that of my fellow students proved to be an absolute lifeline.
Now that this latest storm has passed, I’m able to undertake a bit of naval gazing and to blog again. It’s a relief to do that. And I’m writing my fiction now without a sense of huddling under a cloud in desperation, but of stretching out in the light. Looking back on the last few weeks, I find myself wondering, not so much how I managed to carry on writing, but how people who don’t write manage to survive.