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by Sylvana
I cried till my eyes were so red and swollen I could barely see, I was in such intense pain. I felt as though I were burning up from the inside out. I felt as if I were coming apart, shattering and fragmenting into many small, sharp, unconnected pieces. At first, I was frightened that I would certainly die, then I prayed to the Goddess that I would die right then and there, but all I could find to ease the pain was to write to him -- my lost lover. Long letters, poems, essays, notes and more. I couldn't call, he was far, far away, and we couldn't get together in person to see one another and resolve our dilemma because of the crazy and complicated circumstances.
So I wrote till my fingers were sore and I was nodding off to sleep. I wrote one thing and crossed it out, then wrote more, then tore it up, then wrote some more. I explained, scolded, pleaded, proclaimed my total love and utter devotion, said I hated him and never wanted to see him again, then cried some more and began again. I wrote some of the best poetry and erotica I have ever written during this depression over lost love.
At certain points in my life, I find I write a great deal more, and much finer work, than other times. The periods I have been most motivated to write were when I was disturbed, sad, depressed or even downright miserable. This bothers me -- does it mean that I must fight with my lovers, or my family or friends, so that I'll be in enough of a funk to write a good story, article or book? I certainly hope not!
But in my sadness, I have access to something that sees the world in a different light, like a soft lavender light shining and illuminating everything in a new way. My tears are a soft filter for me to see what was always there but I could not perceive. Inside my pain, I can say the things I want to say but am usually too afraid to risk. I can proclaim my undying love, say really hard truths or tell a person to fuck off... whatever way, my true self finds expression then.
I have found this same principle true of numerous writers and other artists I have known or known of. You've all heard of the tortured artist type, right? The drunks and druggies and other irresponsible -- but charming -- writers, musicians, poets and artists of varying degree.
What drives us to write? Is it a flash of inspiration from the Muses? Is it the Goddess with her many faces, or the God with his powerful presence? Is it because we are dedicated to a god or goddess who demands artistic expression? Is it an inner need, a direction from somewhere deep inside us? It sometimes seems like an addiction, this drive to tell the world what we are thinking. Or maybe it is from somewhere outside ourselves, from some childhood expectation of excellence? Doing it for Mommy or Daddy? Some longing for recognition, permanence, fame? I think it is all of this and more.
Whatever it is, it will not be silenced -- it continues whispering in my ear late at night. I cannot resist the intoxicating call of the words as they twirl and dance in my mind and come gushing out onto the page to be illuminated by the light of day and my own self-doubt and inner critic.
As a witch, I know that I am responsible for what I create in my life. I know I have the power to make things happen, things that are good and that make me happy. I know I work on this very paper not only as an outlet for my urgent writer's need but also to create deadlines, or drama, for myself. I know I thrive on that edge, on the energy of excitement and the urgency of the last moment. It is what I have created to deal with my need for drama energy in my life. It's a drama I can deal with, unlike the painful and hopeless drama of loves lost.
I didn't always know this, however. It took me years to figure it out. Now that I have, I do my best to work with this drama in a good way, to balance out the energy with deadlines and other intense energy, like ritual.
So my main muse is the adrenaline rush of working on an article at zero hour, rushing to get it done, refined and to the editor in time. Worrying that it won't be good enough, which sometimes it's not. Worrying that I didn't spend enough time illustrating my point or on research or that I was careless in my use of grammar and I'll look stupid to the editor.
When I write, as when I do ritual, I do connect with something that allows the words to pour out onto the page like wine or honey or sometimes more like vinegar. I listen to the voices of the gods and fey as they sing to me, tease me and cajole me. The trees tell me quiet stories, and I write them down. Sometimes the voice sputters and stops, refuses to move ahead, and I have to coax it along gently. But when I am in a rage or a deep depression, the words cascade over the pages following one another like sheep... galloping onto page after page after page.
My voice is that of witch, pagan, woman, but my first perspective is from where I find my heart at the moment. My heart drives me, and sometimes it is reckless.
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