As I work on my rough draft for my upper-level college creative nonfiction class, I find myself at this point, with all my ducks in a row, with a story I didn't think would ever reach this level of clarity. I'm absolutely, pleasantly shocked that I've almost hit my word count.
Not only that, I wrote the last paragraph and sat a moment after re-reading it, and I began to tear up. This topic has been something I have thought about for several years, and here it is written down on paper, in Microsoft Word, and it gave me hope. While everyone is working on personal essays, I guess I also did that with my piece because I'm crying as I type up my blog post.
"The Creativity of Tortured Poets" is the embodiment of the hope I've been searching for my entire life.
I want to share a sliver of what I wrote because it punched me right in the feels:
(On being a writer) It's a solitary career choice, with long nights
staring at your blinking cursor and wondering why words make zero sense. At the
end of every wordless night, it's a choice we make to suffer with our art and
our creativity. With that suffrage, we come to find that creating is something we simply suffer with, in the name of art; no, it's something we hold
on to with both hands as it transports us to worlds unknown. It heals the past
hurts that haunt the pages of text we bleed, in the name of our craft, for the
hope of better days and for others, just like us, who read our words and feel
that tiny spark of understanding we once felt long ago that started our hunger for
understanding.
For being truly understood.
And what is creativity, if not the extension of our trying to be understood?
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