Tuesday, April 12, 2005

The Voice

This story. Man. It's killing me. In a good way. But every time I turn around, it seems to be demanding something new from me. Tonight it was a simple realization about the voices and the end of the story. That, frankly, I don't know how to do.

I guess I'll have to figure it out.

I feel like I'm so out of my depth with this. There's these moments when the Dark Voice inside of me comes out and starts crowing. This, it says, is the proof. Faceplanting is guranteed. As a writer I am nothing more than a poser. A Big Fat Poser. And tonight I'm really feeling that voice a bit. As usual, it is a clever fuck and uses some truth to back its arguments up. I have been, it must be said, a dilletante about this writing thing. I have run from this passion, and avoided it, and hemmed and hawed and run and half-assed way too much. I'm waking up to that and clamping down, but the fact remains. I have had a passion, and disrespected it. I have been given the gift of Life, and not lived up to my end of the bargain like I should.

All this makes it hard, at moments, to fight this voice. Really, really hard. I know, of course, the truth. I am breaking out everythign I have on this story. I am stretching myself. Looking at the draft in progress, there are definitely parts I can point to and say, wow, I'm proud of that. And I'm proud that I'm stretching myself. I can see the things I do well, really. But dear lord sometimes that don't matter. The voice talks louder and louder, and as I struggle with some seemingly impossible thing, like how to work a tricky transformation of voice, and...fuck. You know?

I think, sometimes, the scary thing about art, about creating, is not the fear that I might be just another Salieri dreaming of being Mozart. It's that I might be Ed Wood.

I recognize this voice for what it is. It is the antithesis of creativity, of creation. It is destruction. It would destroy everything I have, if it could, rip each piece away from me until there was nothing left. A Shiva dance on my soul without the cycle back into creation. It's a blackhole, an ugly thing of appetite. It speaks with a voice that told me, long ago, that I was worthless, a disappointment, a nothing. It speaks with the voice of the dead.

I hate it. I hate that it's part of me. I hate that, even as I see what kind of beauty I can create, I find myself doubting it. This story, really, has become a challenge. I will figure it out. I will fight and fight to learn the skills I need to make this work. Just so I can shove it down The Voice's throat and laugh as it chokes.


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