I am curious what my writing clients would think of me, if they ever knew I wrote this some of the dark and twisted things I’ve written here. I am not sure if I would rather be known for my fiction or my nonfiction, not that either mean much of anything.
What would happen if those two worlds clashed?
I do know one thing, I hope they never do. I suspect that those that actually bothered to read this would certainly find some of the other writing hilarious. Anyone else in the position of not every wanting the work that they do to mix with their darker aspects?
See the smart thing would be to take this completely down so I can’t ever be found out but since no one ever actually reads this site. I am not sure I have to worry about it.
Writing for a living is never what you think. My fiction gets called too intense and my nonfiction not intense enough. Anyone can do it. I spend my time writing for others and it pays the bills. It helps because I don’t have to leave the house to do it. Sometimes it is difficult to get started especially when you are dealing with depression and other aspects of life and mental illness.
Its easy even if you don’t know how. There are a lot of companies and services that will help you get started. You won’t make a fortune but it does pay the bills.
For those who are still around and like my previous posts, I will eventually get back to writing regularly. It is just life is hard and as usual it never lets up.
In the past weeks I have tried to write honestly I have. Unfortunately everything seems to be coming out just wrong. It is like I can no longer use writing to articulate what is in my head and even the world inside me seems bleaker than normal. I can still see it, it is still there but I no longer live there. I am no longer a part of my own world. It is like looking through glass frosted over by wicked cold letting me see but not feel anything but a cold that not even my world contained. Anyone who is wondering about that world is welcome to read, more than a few posts contain glimpses of that world.
It’s like having a limb severed, being able to see it, but not feel it, not touch it. Not be a part of it. One wouldn’t expect it but it is quite painful actually. To not be in touch with something that has tortured me so beautifully, leaving me twisted and broken. It is much like not being able to touch the one that can twist you into a wonderfully broken thing and make your mind fly apart with the sheer ecstasy of it. Yeah you know who I mean. Only this is worse. That person is just a person, outside and at times replaceable. This is a part of me.
“Will it let me back in,” is the only question that I can ask because it is no longer my choice. They think that banishing the darkness with pharmaceuticals is the only way I will be free. What I don’t tell them is I like the darkness, enjoy it, it makes me whole, without it I am a ghost locked inside myself. I can’t feel, I can’t write, I can’t laugh, love, or breath. Stealing a part of me is something only a lover should do.