In writing about writing, I am throwing pretty much all the shit against the wall and seenig what sticks. Here’s yesterday’s post. I’m at a crossroads because I have not being able to write fiction since my medical crisis. I have tried, but it just hasn’t sparkled. I have talked about how I used to have stories in my brain at all time. Now, it’s pretty quiet. I can think of stories, but I never had to think them up before. They were constantly crowding my brain.
Do I think it’s because of my stroke? I don’t know, but I think it’s possible. I was given a clean bill of health after my stroke, but that doesn’t mean there aren’t residual problems that have happened as a result of it. In addition to my reflexes being even shittier than before (ughhhhhh I dropped the cover to the ceiling light fixture in the kitchen yesterday and it shattered into a million pieces. Granted, it’s a terrible design and a terrible cover, but still), my memory is spottier. I used to have a great memory. I could remember anyone’s name after meeting them once. Well, most people. There were a few who just did not stick no matter what. In general, though, my memory was fantastic.
Now, it’s still decent for the day to day. But there are times when I have no memory of something happening. This is not unusual in my family, but it’s unusual for me. I have always been the one with a steel-trap memory. Not so much any more. I don’t care, though. Surprisingly or not, it didn’t bother me at all. I am alive and mostly healthy, which is much more important than the holes in my memory. After my medical crisis, I read about how devastating strokes can be. Oh, and sudden cardiac arrests? Well, let’s just say that most people don’t survive one of those, let alone two.
Three years after my medical crisis, I still can’t believe I’m alive. It’s surreal, and the only way I have been able to accept it is to just take it at face value. “I should be dead, but I’m alive. Yep.” And then I move on. If i think about it too much, I freak out. It’s not hyperbole to say that I should not be alive. I literally should have stayed dead after my second sudden cardiac arrest and storke. Not to mention the non-COVID-related walking pneumonia.
I should be dead. I was dead. I died twice! I don’t talk about it, but it’s something that affects me on the daily. How could I not? When I first respawned, er, regained my consciousness, and went back home, I was filled with wonder and gratitude. Every day, I woke up and marveled at the world outside my window. It was autumn, which is my second-favorite season–and it brought me to tears how beautiful the world was.
Three years later, I have lost that wonder. That’s not surprising because it’s not human nature to live on that knid of high endlessly. I have also reverted to the norm pretty much in terms of my sleep (not good, but at least I’m still getting eight-ish hours a night), depression (roughly 75% of what it was normally before my medical crisis), and anxiety (roughly 60% of what it used to be). Add to that a crushing personal tragedy in February, and I’m struggling.
What makes it even worse is that we’re in election season. I’m not going to talk about that, but I have such anxiety about it. And it’s showing me the ugly side of America in high relief. I mean, I knew it was there. It’s not like I didn’t know it was there. However, it’s really been a lot in th elast few years. A LOT.
Anyway! Back to writing. November is coming up and that’s NaNoWriMo. I don’t think I’ll do that this year because of the brouhaha that surrounded it last year and also because it’s outlived its usefulness to me. I mean, even with redefining what I do during the time, it has felt more stifling than helpful. Then again, I haven’t been able to write decent fiction since my medical crisis. I did write a bunch last NaNoWriMo, but it was hot trash.
It’s been three years since my medical crisis. Three years and a month. It’s time for me to buckle down and get serious about what I want to write. There are several things, and let me reiterate. One, my memoir. It would be kickstarted with the medical crisis, of course, but that wouldn’t be the only thing it would be about. It would be about family as well and how dysfunction can permeate every aspect of life.
It’s been strange not being able to write fiction for the last three years. I have written since I was seven or eight, but more seriously as an older teen. I wrote poetry for a few years, but it felt too restrictive to me*. I moved onto fiction and haven’t looked back since.
I miss being able to write. I wonder if it’s gone for good. I still have ideas, but I have to think hard about them. They don’t flow the way they used to, and the prose is not as strong, either. I can’t seem to focus as well as I used to, and I think it’s because of the stroke.
I have an idea for a trilogy (I like trilogies). I tried to write the first book during the last NaNoWriMo, but could not make it sing. I tried to write the second book–same problem. I’ve tried to write a few other novels. I can make it about twenty or fifty pages, but then give up. That’s nothing for me, by the way. I can write that in my sleep–or at least, I used to be able to.
I have an idea for a trilogy that is more like five disparate ideas crammed into one (three) novels. I always want to do many different things in one project because that’s how my brain works. I have been told in the past that the way I wirte is not doable. I took that to heart when I was younger, but it was later proved wrong.
Also, I can’t write as not myself; I just can’t. There are things I know about my writing. I am really good with characterization and really bad at description. I can’t paint a picture because I see everything in my mind. I’m tired so I’ll end this now and pick it back up tomorrow.
*This was back in the day before truly experimental poetry became popular. Or spoken word.