I was uncomfortable writing fiction. My love was the personal essay, rather than the novel.
(Alain de Botton)
I have a weird feeling these days. I have never written with such fervor and fever these last days. I remember maybe during the time when I was writing my PhD dissertation, I had the same kind of energy and fever. I could not sleep at the time. I could not talk to people. I could not live normally. All I could think about was writing and finishing my dissertation. I had even lost some friends during that period, those who could not stand my obsession. It was unconsciously stronger than my will. I just could not do anything else than reading articles, books and writing my dissertation. Now again it happens to me the same thing. I hardly sleep at night. I wake up in the middle of the night, grabbing my notebook and pen and rapidly write down the ideas I have maybe in my dreams. I become obsessed with ideas and thoughts. I don’t have time for anything else. I neglect my harpsichord’s practicing even. Thanks God, I always listen to Bach when I write. I get bored when going out with friends. I lose appetite. I used to love shopping. Now I forget about fashion. All I want is to be alone and write. Or doing research for what I want to write. And read all I can to know more about what I want to write.
Could it be possible to isolate oneself that much for an act of creativity?
I almost feel dizzy with my own ideas to how to write, how to explain a new idea, a new short story.
The most terrible thing is that I write a lot about love and truly I don’t know if I am capable of a “real-life” love, a love outside of my conceptual world made only of thoughts, outside of my world of writing. I write about my loves and lovers. Do I love them or do I just love them for my writings? Am I using them for my own creativity and imagination? Do I have the right to do this? When I think of them, I don’t think of them as THEM, as my lovers, but I think of them as the way for me to describe them, to beautify them, to magnify them and all that for the sake of my writings. My words are certainly sincere. My imagination is also sincere. Because they did give me all these beautiful elements to write about them. I picture them with love in my head, but only and again for my writings. When the article is done, I don’t think about them with my love as ME LOVING THEM, but just as someone who writes, ME LOVING THEM WITH MY HEAD AND IN MY WRITINGS.
I feel terrible sometimes. I love each of them as my inspiration. I miss each of them as my muse. Days pass. I love them more and more as characters of my writings, less and less as my real-life lovers. It freaks me out sometimes. Everything is in my head. My heart becomes the one of the writer. Not the one of the lover or a loving woman. It is really scary. But all that love and feelings, even though very strong conceptually, also help me to write about them. Somehow, I stay true to them in my own way. But I find my heart having so many layers these days, the one for the creativity, the one for my real-life. When I write, I feel rescued, I stop suffering from real-life love, illusions and disappointments. I feel blessed. When I stop writing, I start to feel real pain from all these love failures again.
So for what is worth, I prefer by far writing and loving conceptually. But I still try to “love” beyond this “literary experimentation”, I still need to touch base with my deep true feelings. Because this pain, even detestable, makes me write and this suffering, even hideous, is necessary for my writing. I can’t write when I am happy. At least this is an absolute certainty.