Go *$%@ Yourselves! (An Inspirational Post)

I came across a post by @enazwahsdarb and began to write a comment, but quickly realized the comment was becoming a post...so whether this qualifies as an entry still I have no idea, but thank you Zane for the INSPIRATION.

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If those statements sounds cliche, let me explain why for me they are anything but.

I grew up with a family I was, am, and always will be blessed to have (or have had as the case will someday be if life does as it is wont to do.) I was showered with love, encouragement, support and praise during those crucial formative years, and for this I will be forever grateful.

There was just one teeny tiny bump on the road of my childhood bliss- and it was religion.

Now don't get me wrong, there is nothing wrong with having faith. Many religions are beautiful, particularly in the way that they give meaning to those who need it, purpose for those who lack it, and comfort to those who seek it. Whatever you choose to believe in is perfectly fine in my book.

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Ah, book. Now we come to my personal bump. You see my family, or my parents rather, are very ardent Christians. This in itself is not a problem at all, they are certainly entitled to their absolute faith, and I wouldn't wish them to be any different. The issue was not with their beliefs but with their all encompassing need for their children to share those beliefs.

So from the time that I could think, Jesus was the Way, the Truth, and the Life....and no one was getting to Heaven without him. This was the crux of the matter but it also came with many other matters such as Sin. If you have any experience with evangelical or non-denominational Christianity, than you know that so many things are considered sin it's hard to move without committing one. Especially if whatever you're moving to do is something fun, there seems to be a great deal of pleasurable activities that fall under the Sin Umbrella.

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Now I'm not going to cover it all in this post, it would take a book to do that...and again we're back at book. Why do I keep mentioning book? I'll tell you.

I have always loved to write stories. Most children are asked what they want to do when they grow up and they will tell you all kinds of great aspirations... and each year they'll have a new one. Not me. I wanted to write books from the very first time I was asked.

I was thirteen when I began my first book which took me a year and a half to complete. A hundred and twenty pages later and I had a story about a teenage girl who witnessed a crime and became a hostage for being at the wrong place at the wrong time.

My best friend Maria was the only person who ever read this book. I had typed it on one of the first pc's common to the household, the kind that used floppy discs and had the storage capacity of a backpack. I learned one of the most valuable lessons a writer can learn with that book--always, ALWAYS back up your stuff. Because the old crappy computer crashed and took my book with it to its junkyard grave.

I didn't write another book until I was in my twenties. In the years between I wrote many story ideas and beginnings to books, but I was distracted by life, by the coming of age, and by a glimmer of an idea that I might not have all the answers about life and death, that there was a chance the things I had been told all of my life might not be the ultimate end all be all of truth.

It was after I had completed my second book that the many doubts I'd been suppressing, the many questions I'd been ignoring, came flooding through the gates of my mind. Because, you see, I realized I had written the book for someone other than me. Every step of the way I had the voices of my parents, well meaning as they were, stopping me from saying 'this' and questioning why I would say 'that'. By the time the story was written, my characters were so oppressed that what had started as a beautiful forest of ideas had become a dull and lifeless field after a drought. And I finally realized I was living in a prison of the mind. One that was filled with fear and guilt and doubt. And my gift, of words flowing from my being through my fingers, had been stifled in a terrible way.

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And that's when it happened. I was a bottle of champagne that had been thoroughly shaken, and when I blew my cork, I went off like a geyser. Tears and laugher, a bit of hysteria, and finally quiet. And out of that quiet came the words of Socrates and Shakespeare.

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I knew then I would never write another thing that wasn't all mine. No more voices in my head unless I conjured them or welcomed them. The first sentence I wrote after this epiphany was...

Fuck fear and fuck guilt and fuck every doubt I've ever had about myself, right up their massive fucking bungholes; fuck writing for anyone but myself, from now on Me, Myself, and I are my preferred audience, and if anyone doesn't like it they can GO FUCK THEMSELVES.

Whew. I wrote that sentence on a notebook, angry slashes of pen that even tore the page in a couple of places. Have you ever heard of catharsis? That was mine. There are but a few times in my life where I've had a release equal to that one, all of them are a bit like soul enemas.

From that day on I wrote To Thine Own Self Be True and Know Thyself at the top of every story I began to write, and much like the movie Pleasantville, my characters went from black and white to vivid color.

Now I may not be the greatest author that ever lived, but if there's one thing I get complimented on the most about my books, it is how believable my characters are. So if you find yourself having trouble with that aspect of your writing, you may want to ask yourself: "Who am I writing this for?" If your answer isn't "ME", then you'll know what you have to do.

Generously created for me by @son-of-satire

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