It’s been a while since I wrote.
It used to happen in a Bukowskian “put it on paper or jump off a bridge” urgency. Disparate observations and thoughts would chunk together as though I was an unwitting Frankenstein, and I couldn’t sleep until I put them into a short narrative prose. It would take a few hours, but when I was done, cognitive chaos calmed.
It made for a prolific writing phase during university (about 300 notes on Facebook and, in time, I came to realise that my insomnia wasn’t something to be cured. It was a buzzing irritation that wouldn’t let up until I produced something, anything. Everyone has their own price to pay for art, and that was mine.
Unfortunately, you can’t function in the rat race if you’re up writing until four in the morning every day, so I got onto pills. It dried up the writing, but it made me a functional cog in the capitalist machine. It made me sane again. In time, I was diagnosed with bipolar II, which put a new lens the insomnia and many other life experiences.
I was going to be an anthropologist, I was doing well in my postgrad year, but life happened and I needed to make money quick. These days, I’m an editor and proofreader for financial reports. I’m on the right medication, in a healthy environment. Mostly, I’m content, but I’ve reached the point where I want to stop pining for some abstract idea of being a writer and just want to bloody well get on with it because, even if I’m terrible at it, it’s what I am.
To begin, I’ll be recycling many of my first blog’s posts and my older Facebook notes here. I’ll put down my older stories, and I’ll bitch slap myself into keeping at it, even when I don’t feel like it. So here goes, when work allows, I won’t take quetiapine (my sleepers): Will spills Will’s pills, and does something cathartic.
Watch this space, it just might mean something to both of us.
1 February 2017