For the writer, it can often feel that the very novels that they write are limiting. As wonderful and whimsical as being transported to that world inside of your mind can be, we have to admit that it can stunt out creativity at times. Just think about it, you, entering your own pocket dimension of creativity that only you know and that only you are able to comprehend despite it’s chaos. It’s a whole journey we have to take on, while we’re alone! And being the brave adventurers that we are, we just love venturing into these unknowns that reside within our minds and trying to decipher them. Trying to piece together that puzzle we like to call our imagination.
We wade deep into it. Trudging through bogs of uncertainty and flailing our arms to keep away that mist that’s blinding us. On occasion, we manage to clamber out of these swamplands and into the pinnacle of greatness. We’re lifted up to a summit whose crags pierce through hazy clouds into a pure blue sky. We soar in our glory, until we reach the dwelling of the powers that be, only to be given gifts of ambrosia and a banquet to our names. We laugh, we cheer, we dance, we sing, and we gorge ourselves with the fruits of our perilous journey.
Yet this is rarely the case.
Instead, we often lose our footing and our legs are swallowed by the filth of the marsh. The sloshing mud turns our boots into anvils that we can barely lift an inch off the ground, and the mist turns to steamy vapors that burn our eyes and leave us blind to whatever path we have. Unbeknownst to us, we begin to lose the drive to move forward. That mystery that can only be solved by our minds begins to bore us while we stumble in the marshes. What had once been a journey meant to change your life has now turned into a chore.
Where you had once seen progress, where you had once seen innovation, where you had once seen change, there now lies the exact opposite. Instead of progress you have regress, instead of innovation you have stagnation, and instead of change you see only decadence. The kind that fails to finish its journey and the kind that wallows in the dredges of the marshlands. Us.
Who else could there be to blame save for ourselves? After all, we’re the ones that chose to undertake the journey. And we’re the same fools that were convinced they could actually finish it. We might as well stop now–there’s no use in continuing after all, so why bother? And so we let ourselves sink further down into those lonely marshes, where no one would ever be able to find our bodies…
Writing should not be like this. I’ve spoken about detachment to our worlds in the form of The Creative Schism, but there is such a thing as being too attached to our books. And this can be just as dangerous.
Our worlds, as detailed as they might be, can get just as mundane as good old Earth can feel like on occasion. When we cram ourselves inside of it for too long, we lose that sense of uniqueness and even the integrity of the worlds that we create. And before we know it, they’re just as bland as that world around us can seem to be. We lose the “magic” or the “pizzaz” that got us writing in the first place.
Which is why we need to learn to detach ourselves from our books to a certain extent. To keep half of ourselves in the real world and the other half within our stories. When the world of our books loses its flavor, feel free to take a walk, or maybe go out somewhere. Remember, the experiences that we write are always downstreamed from experiences we’ve had ourselves or that we’ve seen others go through. The sentences we craft do not exist in a vacuum from reality, in fact, each of them has a direct link to our world that we need to acknowledge.
I’ve been feeling really “stuck” to my WIPS and even this blog for that matter. It can be hard to write about anything if you don’t go out and do some living. And don’t just do it for the sake of your writing, do it for your sake as well.
As always, this has been the QuestingAuthor. Do some living, my friends.