This is my first entry on my new blog. My old blog was read by family members. This led to some difficulty. My sister and brother did not want me to write about my mother's rape. My brother objected to there being a gun in my house since I am at times suicidal. All reasonable objections. But in my mind blogging is about freedom of expression. I have to be able to speak my mind. And my family's interference had affected me. I got scared to write my true feelings.
So on this new blog I am anonymous. With the exception of my husband, my family does not know about it. I can't cast shame on my family. I am beyond the reach of people who would want to protect me. I can't make them proud by my writing but I also can't cause them any worry. The only opinions that can affect me are those left by the strangers who read my blog. And I will try, very hard, not to let the opinions of strangers bother me.
I write and paint and draw. Right now I am focusing on writing a book. A book about vampires. You can only sell a painting once, but a book you can resell a million times. I have worked on it for about a year and a half but I estimate that it will take three to four years to finish. I write for two to four hours every day. There are days when I am too sick to write, my mind is too weak. There are days when I have obligations that send me off on errands and prevent me from writing. But I try to make writing a priority. I need to know who I am before I fall asleep at night. Am I a nobody or am I an artist? This question comes to me before I fall asleep. I reach back and review my day. Was I productive? Did I use my mind, work it, stretch it out? I love my mind even though it is diseased. It is my most valuable possession.
When I do write it is during the golden hours of my day. These are the hours after I wake up. First thing I do after I wake up is to read the news on the internet. That gives me a chance to drink coffee and rouse sluggish thought. Then I work on my book. My mind is fresh. No one is home. There is silence all around me. I can concentrate. My mind spins delicate threads of thought. I write until I am exhausted. I write until my mind starts to hurt with confusion. When I stop it is only because I must.
I have never heard about writers who are in mental pain after they stop writing. Do writers who drink take their liquor after they have written in an attempt to dull the pain? I don't know. Frequently after I stop writing I lie very still in bed. I bury my face in a pillow. What has happened is that I have become over-stimulated and exhausted. Of course I am not sleepy, it is usually still morning or early afternoon. But in writing until I can write no more I have pushed myself to the point where symptoms of my illness appear. There is darkness and despair. There is fear of nothing and everything. My body has no energy and does not want to move. I pay a price for writing. I only hope that if it hurts so bad it is only because I have done so well.