Some times analogies are needed. They don’t stretch all the way; they don’t fit entirely, but they help a bit.
Here’s mine for today.
Sometimes I feel like the writer in me exists in a fat suit. Tightly bound in layer upon layer, restricting easy movement (I feel a bit like that as an ME/CFS sufferer too, but let’s not spread the analogy too widely for now).
The writer in me hisses and sparks, wriggles and flares. The writer in me is constantly brewing (or percolating, if you prefer coffee). The writer in me surfs the wave, experiencing the heady thrill of discovery, the need to express what lies within.
But my zippy, heady writerly self is encased in something. Something very like a fat suit. Something that makes it so hard to express these sparkly, elegant ideas that often they can’t get through the outside, uncooperative shell. Partly tiredness. Perhaps with a nice distraction/mediocrity blend. Packed full of the other stuff I feel I should do, or haven’t done and probably won’t do for all my guilt-tripping about it.
I wish I could break out more often, but I often fail, scrabbling ineffectually at the inside of my fat suit. And so much lies wasted within. It’s there but it needs squeezing out, drop by drop, unless there’s a glorious moment where the flow is untapped and eureka! I remember how much I love her, that writer inside. But to even have a chance of releasing her, I need to scrabble and scrabble, pulling myself away from my world of distraction, navigating through lesser, mediocre habits and finally finding that point where she can escape and be who she is.
Can anyone relate to this?