There is something I haven’t fully considered about writing, which is that every time I work on a story I do so in streaks: for a few days, all of my mental (and –to a certain degree– physical) energy is focused on this one story, on existing in its universe, responding to its demands.
It is like getting on a ride of sorts and my body and psychology are set to the movement of the ride, responding to its rise and fall, orienting me based on where the ride takes me. Or perhaps more like climbing aboard a ship.
But then, after a few days, or even a week (depending on how lucky I am with stamina, with the length of my streak), I climb back out of the story-ship’s bowels and return to the motionless shore of non-immersion, the basic state of living when I am not thinking my way through a writing project. Even if I haven’t finished the story I was working on, adapting to the shores of non-immersion takes me a while: I need to regain focus and balance.
The feeling is the same as being lost but feeling the need to keep moving: the same hectic pull.
Every time, I climb or fall out of the story onto sold ground and it feels like sea-legs; I feel dizzy, disoriented, but also angry with myself for feeling this way; I tell myself,
‘What do you mean? You are a terrestrial creature, not a fish: you belong on the land, this is your home, where you were born. And yet only after a few days or weeks at sea you mean to tell me that you suffer from a sense of disorientation on the very ground your legs have evolved to tread?’
This is, of course, only a metaphor – and I like to stretch those a bit. But it puts into words the feelings I have been battling for the past few days. My disorientation makes no sense to me: all I did was climb on a boat/story allow the motion of the waves to carry me, affect my sense of balance for a while, and then climb back out onto a shore that should feel stable and firm, a ground that isn’t supposed to be spinning, a horizon I have convinced myself should the straight and clear.
But here I am, without focus and, most of all, berating myself for it instead of accepting that this is simply part of the process.
But here I also am, writing it out, making sense of it for myself so that I may eventually learn to accept it.