The Mind of a Young Writer

 

I write so I can disappear into a world that only I control, one in which nobody breathes a single breath without my consent. A fantasy consisting of only those I want it to, with a few vulgar rivals thrown in; after all not all my characters can have happy endings. Writing can at times be like drifting between numerous worlds, opening up different doors within my head, trying to decide which one to dive into. So often the minute I do dive in, the door slams shut behind me and I spend weeks trying to find a window to climb out.

Yes the writer’s mind is a messy one, generally filled with so many different wants and desires that rather than living them all out, some have to be content with filling the page instead of our lives.

It is hard to imagine that the exciting, fast paced adventures of your average novel could be written by a student who has barely lived a life at all, let alone an exciting and passionate one. The closest to love I have come is lust and the closest to passion is what I feel when I write. I hate to destroy the illusion that, deep down a novel or a poem conveys a truth lived by the author at sometime in history, but there it is…

I feel it is necessary however to read a novel with the expectation that everything in it could happen to you. This is needed with thrillers or crime novels to frighten the reader enough to keep them turning the page, if they believe that they are in danger, they will be more desperate to know who the murderer is and that he is safely tucked away in the prison of the writers mind. And as for romantic novels the reader must believe that every detail could play out in their own life. However else would such perfect matches and happy endings be accepted as possibilities in this often dark and daily unjust world?

I do not mean to sound depressed with life, I am merely coming to terms with the realisation that no matter how much I write and rewrite my characters lives to perfection, my own life can never follow the same direction. The only comfort I have in this stark realisation is that the Author that does have my book in his hand, ready to pen the next chapter is also the perfecter of my faith.

My Faith does not stop me from allowing my imagination to play though; daily it swims through an ocean of characters and plotlines, all screaming to start their own perfect lives on the page.

It is impossible with a normal life to let all of these ideas develop into something that will grip and entice readers. So hundreds of perfect couples and silky smooth plotlines are lost everyday; entering a place somewhere in my mind which seems to me to be a void, now filled with all my failed thoughts and feelings.

I fear the life of a writer will never be a glamorous one, what need would there be for writing down the exciting and pulsating desires of your heart if you were living them? What a waste of time that would be! Had I at this present time a more interesting enticement than another night of passionate dreams that I am certain will never become reality, would I be here now, explaining the mind of a young writer? Perhaps I would be writing a journal of all the exciting things happening in my life; of my love for someone or other, for the passion I feel every time we meet. But writing such as this could hardly be acceptable.

Another advantage of being in control of what goes on the page is that it never has to directly relate to me or any other person I am connected to. Therefore the pain and suffering I feel can and always will be a private affair. For those filling in diaries before bedtime, writing the truth would sometimes perhaps leave a sting. What happens when things are no longer passionate and exciting? Does the writing then have to stop until something worthy writing off comes along, or do you continue to honestly write that, whilst you are alive, at this moment you are not living? You see my writing is never honest or from my heart it is purely and wholly from my imagination.

Honestly, when I sit down to write, I often feel that it isn’t me writing at all, but a facet of my mind; delving into the wants and desires that I am not brave enough to even dream of becoming a reality in my own contented, yet unspectacular life. People often read my poems or stories and comment on how sad or tragic they appear to be, feeling that this has some sort of reflection on my own state of mind. I can assure you it does not. While I am sure most writers would agree that emotions do have an affect on your writing, often the words I write on my page are the opposite of the ones I am feeling.

When I am feeling sad things I cannot (very often) write about them, possibly because I do not want to relive them, almost as if writing them down would make them seem real. When I feel lonely for example, or happen to meet yet another seemingly perfect man who is in some form or another not at all right for me; I will often write glorious love scenes between my characters, giving them the life I secretly yearn for.

This is of course not always the case as there is generally an exception to every rule and mine is this, when I write sad things or tragic things it may be that something, in one part or another of my life is not playing out as I had hoped, I will not write about that part of my life, but something else, and as a writer although it is not a truth of any kind, and it doesn’t relate to my own life, I cannot hide the emotions I am feeling.

I believe that emotion is the key, and it is this that fills my young messy mind. Love, anger, sadness, confusion, lust, happiness, loneliness… everything I write is driven by one or all of the emotions swimming around my head. It is these real, unconcealed emotions that I offer to you, the readers of my mind, wrapped in clever words and witty characters, I try and pass them off as someone else’s hopes and trepidation, but the mind of a writer is a messy one, and every now and then, a small glimpse of the real person, free from the stain of ink may appear for a brief moment on the page, before quickly withdrawing back into the lives of those longing to be allowed to begin their own exciting adventure at the hand and pen of yours truly.

Cheryl hails from the UK and enjoys dabbling in poetry as well as creative writing. She contributed to poetry anthologies as a teenager in the States but allowed the stresses and strains of A Levels to put a temporary end to her enjoyment in creative writing. Now reading for a Bachelor of Arts in Deaf Studies, she has once again found the time to disappear into her own mind and allow the stories and characters that have been impatiently waiting there to once again fill the page. Her greatest ambition is to one day find the time to pen and publish a romantic novel. You can read more of Cheryl’s work, and specifically her poetry at her blog, I Have These Words.

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