I was thinking about my writing the other day, and I came to the conclusion that the majority of my creativity has come from becoming me – experiencing the world, serious relationships, travelling and seeing new places, growing up and doing the things that lead to figuring out who you are as a person.
For the first time in my life I actually feel like an adult, which is also a wee bit scary. I am starting to get wrinkles, parts of my body are starting their gravitational trip to outer crust of earth, and I keep meeting people who don’t know what the running man is or who Jerrica Benton was. I find myself swilling wine to fully appreciate the flavour, I am conscious of the importance of fueling my body with the right food, I find pleasure in gardening, and I like getting up early on Saturday morning. The subcultures around me dress differently (who would have thought skaters would wear tight jeans?!), I don’t like popular music, and “kids” really annoy me (kids being anyone from 0-21). I’ve found the process of “becoming me” quite hard, depressing at times even. It’s like a post-puberty adolescence, and like puberty I’m glad it seems to be over.
During this time, I’ve found it hard to write, and when I say hard I mean almost impossible. All I’ve been doing for the past year is analysing myself over and over, to the point where I’ve almost forgotten how to look outside my own brain. I’ve forgotten how much I can be sated by writing a wretched piece on how stupid other people are, or how annoying something about the place I’m living is. At the same time, this self analytical thinking has helped me figure out what I want, what I like, and what I need. I know I need to write to be happy – so excuse me while I try to get back into the swing of things.