Since I was young I’ve wanted to be like all the great writers out there. I’ve wanted to embody the poets who can make a heartsink at a single line, a novelist who can create a world so vivid that the separation between real and written is practically nonexistent. I’ve wanted to live a life so eventful I could write the greatest memoir there ever was. Simple, but beautiful.
I followed this dream for a while. As I grew through elementary school, I printed out and stapled together pages of stories I’d created and handed them out to my family members. I kept journals, only moving onto a new blank one when I’d run out of every inch of empty page-space, including the cover. In high school, my eyes were opened to many jarring realities and firsts, harsh firsts. This is when I delved into poetry.
I was fifteen and writing helped me more than therapy ever did. I wrote about my first breakup, and how my first boyfriend was mean to me, and how I still thought it would hurt less to rip off every inch of my skin than to continue to live through our breakup. I wrote about feeling lost. I wrote about not wanting to eat as I outgrew my childhood body. I wrote about my relationship with my mom, how I wished I had more friends, and that it was always my fault for drinking too much. It was all mediocre writing, at best.
Come university, I saw my writing begin to go somewhere; in my second year at Queen’s, I met Carolyn Smart, the greatest woman I’ve ever had the pleasure to work with. She helped me turn my writing into the best it could be and taught me how to give all of my emotion to every piece I write. In my third year, she awarded me the incredible opportunity to publish my work in a print anthology alongside many of my talented classmates, before her retirement. This book remains my sole print publication and greatest achievement.
I haven’t done much writing since my last class with Carolyn. I’ve been happy. I’ve been in a good space in my life; mentally, physically, spiritually. There is always room for improvement, of course, however, nothing out of the ordinary has been ailing me for quite some time. I feel like I’m back on track with where I’m supposed to be in my life, for the first time in a long time.
While this is great for me, it is terrible for my writing. Let me explain.
When I am six feet under, when I am in the most agonizing pain I’ve ever felt and the heartbreak, loss, or numbness is crawling underneath my skin and shooting like electric currents through each of my veins––this is when I write. This is when I write without meaning to when it is my body’s only response when I create what I am most proud of. It’s hard to write when I’m happy, as paradoxical as it is. I’ve always tried to feel every emotion, good or bad, as much as I can. But unless I’m drowning, when it comes to writing, the personal success I feel is always at half-mast. I like writing things I care about. I like writing things I’m passionate about. When I’m sad, it’s easy.
I often wonder whether it’s merely unfair to compare the influence of happiness versus rock-bottom on my writing, emotions on two opposite ends of the spectrum. I often wonder, is it feasible to write for the rest of my life if I have to be absolutely miserable to do it?
I doubt I’ll ever know, but here we are, for now.