Recently, I’ve decided to take a literary honeymoon, and like Jackie Gleason used to boast, oh how sweet it is. Between school work, constant editing, self-pimping, blogging, the whimsy of my imagination had to go on holiday. So it was nice—rather refreshing really—to find those itchy rumblings of my soul getting stirred up again. The muses dictate—so I create.
My latest endeavor takes me on a very different, and highly erotic path—one which is both intriguing and challenging for me. It’s a reinterpretation of an older version of series of stories I had and it allows me to really tap into things that I never really got to explore. Getting into this process again—creating—reminded me of why I love to write. Pursuing my career as an academic is interesting to me and poses its own challenges. I am passionate about the subject matter and it certainly engages me mentally in a way that my desk job never did—and yet still, something else captures me.
I often look at these dual elements of myself sort of like a man may look at his wife and mistress. He loves them both; however they do different things for him. While the wife is comforting, provides stability, and even a degree of certainty, the mistress is exciting, complicated, anything but certain. He wants them both; he has them both; but if he thought about it deeply—the freedom—indeed the brilliance that he experiences when he’s with his mistress is something that doesn’t even come close, to what he experiences in the safe confines of his caring, but rather predictable wife. It is his dilemma; it is mine.
I have not been known as a person who throws all caution to the wind, and I doubt I ever will. And yet—in all honesty—I am impressed with the bravery of such audacity. Forgoing predictable comfort for possible uncertain pleasure—what a beautiful if not elusive dream. Cause you see, I love to write—writing is my whore and I am hers. And like all passionate, complicated relations, when I’m in the midst of my whore, I need nothing else. It is the first and only thing that consumes me completely—where the void that is perpetually with me, ceases to exist. I love my whore. So much that I love her, that if I was given the option of forsaking the conventional trappings of womanhood, such as marriage and motherhood, only to walk the earth with my whore in order to emerge as one of the greatest writers—I would after several blinks of hesitation—choose the latter. Such speaks the bibliographic volumes of my love. And yet I love a whore that doesn’t feed me; the eternal dilemma of the starving artist.
The great thing about this is like all things in life, there is no simple answer. The journey is one of growth and perpetual self-defining. The answers come, when you’ve evolved enough to answer them. So in the meanwhile, I’ll just continue to question and write as if my soul depended on it.