I’ve written before about the need to write and the significance of this desire to my life and writing. However, the more I think about it – when I’m not writing – the more I believe that it is almost like a psychosis or (more correctly) the cure for one.
For me writing can be characterised as periods of fervent obsessional productivity and periods of creative drought. I rarely write consistently and don’t have deadlines to obey. Thus, I have the freedom to write when inspiration takes hold. However, over the last few weeks, I’ve been bogged down with work.
This has led to a strange situation for me. I’m eager to write and have the ideas, but I don’t have the time! This is an issue which I’m sure many amateur writers are faced with yet one that has, thankfully, affected me little. I’ve realised though that this creativity needs an outlet. I find myself sitting, people-watching and inventing complex back stories for those around me or daydreaming a story’s plot as I stare into the abyss.
It strikes me that without the therapeutic act of writing, to elevate a bored imagination, my mind drifts back to childhood fantasy. I suppose psychosis is a bit melodramatic and perhaps I’m using the word in too carefree a sense. That said, it does in many ways take a hold of me and I find my concentration drifting to the inventions of my imagination.
Is writing a necessity for my mental well-being? Is it what gives the more fantastical and creative fragments of my conscious a vent?
These are not questions that I feel capable of answering nor ones that I feel a satisfactory answer to is possible. They are merely the contemplations of a mind in need of a creative cure.