Street Walking Cheetah With A Capitol G
I believe I've discovered a new chapter of myself, growing a new leaf could be another way of saying it.
I'm not totally sure it happened, to be honest. As I had mentioned before, I had essentially stopped writing, having cut myself off from my inner author for the pursuit of... well, I have no idea what the hell I was pursuing, but I think I found it.
Maybe I'm not the only one here who gets feelings that makes it impossible to write. You know what they are; to some, it's depression. The idea of the darkness swallowing you whole makes you so morbid, you can't fathom to pick up a pen and paper to write unless you plan on creating a mass murderer killing out of loneliness.
To others, it's happiness. Even when you think you can write because you're all smiles and your world is perfect and golden, you can't. All you get is images of sugary rainbows and unicorns dancing over chocolate. While happy endings are always something we want to achieve, sometimes the story in your head just doesn't call for it.
Then there's that neutral patch. You're not happy, but you're not sad either. You're there. You're living. It's life. Eh. Yes, those moments happen, too, and when they do, it sucks. It's like the dreary skies without the pouring rain.
I think I can safely say that my writing tends to be its best when I'm depressed. It's a sad thing to say, I know. Who wants to admit they can't write unless their life is hell and there's no light at the end of the tunnel? No one wants to, in reality, but inwardly we recognize and acknowledge it. We know our happy skies will eventually bring pouring rain, and then we can go back to our computers and notebooks and scribble out every detail that eluded us under the shining sun.
But something's not right this time. Today, for the first time in who-knows-how-long, I was writing. But not only was I writing, I was editing. Tweaking, fixing, buffing, polishing, whatever you choose to call it. And the heart of it all? I was writing while happy. Holy hell Batman, what's wrong with me?
In a way, I kind of want to thank my boyfriend, Tim, for this. I know he didn't put my fingers to the keyboard, didn't craft the words in my head, but you know what? He loved me, and still loves me. He's stood by my side since he learned of my goal to become a published novelist, and never once did he waver. "Do whatever makes you happy," he said to me, and I haven't forgotten those words yet. No one in my personal life has said that to me, not my parents, not my past boyfriends, not my friends. This one boy, who is facing his own trials and demons between his home and his job, is coaching me, the girl in a comfortable home with everything she could ever need, to do whatever makes me happy in life. If that means I want to change my mind every few months, he's okay with that. If that means I want to do five different mini-careers at once, he's going to support me through it, and encourage me to succeed.
I don't think I've ever loved someone as much as I love him. And I don't think I'll ever love someone after him, either.
So Tim, even though you're never going to read this, thank you. Thank you for being my rock, my life vest in this storm, my medication to each headache, ranting fit, and crying spell I've ever had and will ever have in the future. Thank you for being you.
And thank you, guys, thank you for the comments, the kind words and advice. I've personally taken the time to say this, so I believe it's well past due. And even if you never commented, but just glanced through and suffered reading this whole thing to hear me rant, rave, sob, scream, or cheer about something, thank you, too.
...I really must be in a mood. Ho-lee crap.
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