Matter over Mind

For years and years and years, ever since this inclination to writing formed inside of me I wanted to write a book. A book of my own, with a world created by me, populated with my characters living out my made up stories.

Till now I have gone through quite a lot of potential stories for books, I wrote out plans, I created characters, I toiled and I suffered, I started and never finished.

Fascinatingly enough, I am able to write short stories but when it comes to writing at one of my potential books, something very interesting happens.

I get sick.

I get physically sick and also, I seem to forget how to write.

I looked at the texts I work on for my books and compared them to the texts I work on for my stories. The ones for the books have innumerable mistakes, spelling, syntax, the works.

It is like when I go to write for the books another entity gets hold of me and tries to make it as difficult as possible for me.

The getting sick part is so interesting. I get sick to my stomach, I start having the most awful acid reflux and get nauseated. Go figure!

I never really understood this, the link between the two never formed in my conscience, until at some point I read in the most wonderful Mr. Stephen King’s Bag of Bones about the way the protagonist, Mike Noonan, becomes physically ill while trying to write.

He describes sitting at his desk, attempting to write, only to feel an almost visceral rejection of the task. His body rebels—he starts sweating profusely, feels nauseous, and eventually vomits. This is symbolic of his inability to write authentically or connect with his creativity, as he’s still haunted by his loss and unresolved emotions.

The scene reflects Mike’s deep psychological distress and possibly supernatural interference.

This was one of those light-bulb moments for me, when I understood that, what I was going through, was something more than just a sensitive stomach.

Sadly, unlike Mike Noonan, I did not find the source of my unease and I still have to deal with it every time I sit and write, or attempt to write, at my book.

I assume it has to deal with fear of failure, of being judged, with my inability to trust myself and my stories.

I have given up writing more times than I care to admit, exactly because of this, because of the pain this struggle is causing me, because I have become convinced that I cannot write for some reason I do not know, I cannot identify and I do not understand.

But, as it turns out, writing is not something that I can turn off, I have to write, good or bad, to an audience or without. I have to write, so the only way forward is to keep at it, hoping that at at some point, there will come a moment, when the dam that is preventing me will just burst and I will be free to write as I want.

Till then, I will do what I can and hope it is enough to carry me over.