Pain Fuels Art

Every story has a beginning, a middle, and an end.

Some end the way you expect. They are full of tropes and conventions, but they are dependable. You know what kind of ending you are going to get based on the genre. They give you warm fuzzies and you read them when you need them.

Others end unexpectedly. Literature does this more often than not. You want the characters to reach their happily ever after, for everything in the world to get set right again, but once you see how few pages are left in the story, you discover that there's not enough time to find the happy ending. Simply impossible.

Literature mimics life.

This week, the life I knew came to an end.

My life, dear reader, has had many beginnings, middles, and ends. The subplots twisted and turned then terminated. Secondary characters walked onto the stage and then exited stage left almost as quickly as they stepped through the curtain. Primary characters came and went all the same. For some reason, it's the way my play is written. Whomever directs this play should be fired, dragged into the street, and shot.

Ah, but is this not the way you've written it? Shut up, you.

The point is: how do I cope with pain and loss as a writer?

Well, poorly. I've never been good at endings. If you're a better writer than me, and chances are heavily in your favor, then you would take this opportunity to express the very depths of your soul through characters, plots, and settings that reflect the internal conflict that currently ravages your mind and body.

If you're me...well... you pick up the same book fifty times and read the first paragraph one hundred times. You wait for courage to arrive as you stare at the cursor on your screen. It never comes. You ask yourself, "What's the fucking point?" over and over and over again until those words tattoo themselves across the back of your mind. You give up. You lose.

I've given up countless times. I've lost countless more. In the process, I tend to lose all sense of self. Perhaps that comes with the territory? Eventually, maybe months or years down the line, courage returns and so do I: to the computer, to the pen, to the paper. It's slow, like building a fire, and equally as delicate. One wrong move, one errant breath, and you've blown out the flame. Many things in life require this level of sensitivity. Often, we brute force our way into the fire. Lord knows I've done this countless times, too. But, eventually, the fire starts to roar.

Yet what about those moments where it's hard to breathe? When the winter winds howl through the glen, and your numb hands cup the flickering flame? Sheltering it. Protecting it. Those moments when you can't exhale enough to stoke the fire? In these moments, it's vital to nurture the flame in whatever ways you can. Remember: all it takes is an ember to warm the world. Do not forget that. If not the whole world, at least your own.

How do I cope? Distance, and Time. Given enough of both, whatever ailed you once becomes a faint memory, a reminder, a warning. Pain is the starkest reminder that we are alive. We want so little pain that when it does occur, we are paralyzed by fear and that fear drives us to do immensely stupid and immensely courageous things. Always choose the courageous option, if you get the choice at all.

What is this feeling? Is it sadness? Is it sorrow? Is it yearning? Perhaps. Live in it. Relish it. There will soon come a day when our experience on this planet ceases, and before that final curtain call we will wish for one more moment to stand out there before everyone and show ourselves to the world. That moment will never come, and all that will remain is how people remember us. Then the fire turns us to ash before it fades.

How do I cope? I keep on living. I stop putting expectations on myself as a writer. Most things in life are far more important than the scribbles on the page. The things that have happened recently are certainly more important to me than writing.

I make a choice: to keep living in hope rather than dying in despair. Every day I make this choice is a good one, even if it hurts.

During these times, you write what you can. Expect nothing. If a single word escapes your mind and crosses the page, then you've done it! You've lived instead of died. That has to count for something, right?

What does this mean for the future?

If I had my crystal ball, I'd tell you but since it's shattered and in the shop for repairs, all I can say is:

I suppose we'll all have to wait and see.

Your guess is as good as mine.

Perhaps the ember catches fire somewhere unseen and all we have to wait for is the roar.