Twelve Years: What I Experienced from a Story That Would Not Die

I once heard that there is no greater failure as a writer of not letting go of a story that you cannot tell if you never experienced it as a mirror from your own life. I'm sure some of you have heard about my story concept from long ago about 'Schism' and that I would dedicate myself completely to finishing it to whatever end. I never realized all that time ago I was dealing with a newborn who had not experienced life enough to put forth a story that was worth telling. Young, dumb, and embarrassingly narrow perceptions clouded my mind at the time while grasping through a fog of so many events I endured both publicly and personally. So I put this newborn concept, my most precious piece of work asleep for a very long time. I did something no true writer or artist should do to their creative voice that guides them from concept to creation. I gave up. I stopped writing stories then began lapping up the slog of work related writing, god awful poetry, and repugnant long form comments to keep my creative muse barely alive. It was like having a family member on life support where you have to make a decision to let them die naturally or just end their suffering right there for the better. I screwed up, made the biggest mistake by what I assumed were wasted years spent on momentary satisfaction by appraisals from my work life then scorn or acceptance by the social media on weekends. If a personal hell reserved for writers needed an example this life I lived served as a perfect example. I had no sense of value for myself or my work constantly degrading my creativity until I saw that all was left was an emaciated corpse with eyes that burned right into my soul telling me that this was not how it was meant to be.I didn't just fail magnificently I also did it intentionally.
Yet the story I had wanted to tell never died. It never once left me and it grew alongside these acts of creative deprication. While it slept soundly in the chaos of my subconscious it grew from a newborn to an adult. Every experience I had and every moment of failure I set for myself taught it how to write itself. It became a cliche to something original, something to serve as a mirror of the horrors of human nature as well as the reality we live in today. Even though it had evolved I just couldn't let it out and the more I kept it repressed the stronger it became. Scratching away at my self-loathing so it would at last see a light instead of being kept locked away in the darkness of my mind.
Then last year I went through the worst, darkest period of my life. Insomnia/manic depression, being abused me mentally/emotionally by an insignificant other, my antique shop being forclosed whicch destroyed my dreams of an early retirement, the death of my friend and my dog of fifteen years etc. I went crazy. Totally bat shit insane. I needed a way to vent, to let everything out so I could find some form of anchor to keep me from sinking into a cess pool deeper than the one I crawled out of when I was an eighteen year old violent alcoholic. Eventually my family really noticed this change which led them to have me forcefully admitted to a hospital. They put me on a regimen of medication and art therapy to bring the part of me back they loved so much. A year and a half of that finally jarred loose the final restraint that kept this story from being told from which it whispered the truth as far as to why I couldn't find my voice as a writer. I was trying to tell a story I wanted to be told from my perception, not a story that must be told from the perceptions of others. I was a selfish, naive writer who wrote only to be accepted rather than face the fear of being rejected because I was conditioned from a lifetime of abuse that acceptence is the ultimate escape from failure. A lie I beleived for so many years that nearly killed my muse by speaking for it rather than allowing it to speak through me. However, it made me understand that all these repeated failures were necessary for me to achieve the drive to succeed. To elevate my mind by finding a stillness in what I had lost over the years. Twelve years it held on, waiting for the right moment when I fell off the edge of sanity so that I could finally accept that writing itself, even if it's bad, is a success even if no one likes it. Reminds me of that play in the Producers where they thought that humorously awful play they created would end in failure yet despite their expectations became a success. Through all of it I learned so much to which I hope this helps all you writer's out there with this message alone. Just because you can't write now doesn't mean you can't keep trying later. With that in mind I look forward to trying again, and again, and again. After facing my darkest hour I finally found the essence I needed to sculpt a story that needs to be shared no matter what life presents to me good or bad.
Keep the backburner in your minds alive only kill your darlings if there's a better story to replace them. As you can see unlike my god awful poetry (yes self-deprication remains, but it's also therapy) this is perhaps the longest article I have written on here in ages because I'm no longer speaking from my mind but releasing from the soul. Trust me on this, my souo has so much to share with you all and love it or hate it I'm going to do it while laughing all the damn way even if it becomes the most hated works in history. That's just how it is. May you all find the voice within and never, ever take the muse off life support even when life itself seems to be a better option in the long run. Take it from me it certainly is not. Thank you for listening I'll be experimenting more artistically so sometimes I'm here and other times creating my own worlds to share with the real world. Best of luck my friends.

P.s. Best way to describe this journey is like the Oddesey with the entire Hurt Vol. 1-2 playing in the background. Random thought but I learned also to say it regardeless so what the hell why not. Also I'm aware there is probably a ton of spelling errors or improper English however think of it as great practice for aspiring editors. Thank you again, all of you for being here. You have done more than you can imagine just by that alone.


Congratulations on emerging from that very dark period Chinobus, and I really look forward to reading your story!


nearly killed my muse by speaking for it rather than allowing it to speak through me.' yes, I think we all do that. chatter and don't listen.