There are times I wish that I were a smoker, like when I'm completely stressed out or with friends who hold records for most cigarettes smoked in a minute.
Mostly these cravings come during times like these. Times where I'm stuck at my computer desk wanting to write but my fingers are unable to from creative words. It's as if there is a part of me that believes that, if I were to put a cigarette between my fingers and allow the smoke to engulf my body, I would be able to write these fictional pieces living inside of me that are unable to leave my being.
A glamorous image would be of me sitting at a desk, typewriter in front of me by a window with the sun shining through while a fag leaves my mouth, smoke going out of my nose like a raging bull as I beat my words onto the typewriter.
I forget how much I miss writing until the urge is placed upon me. And this urge is always placed upon me when I pick up one of my Sylvia Plath books, whether it be her only novel or one of her collection of poems, possibly even her journals. All I need is to read one page and I'm done with the book, ready to be back at my desk and letting the words flow. I'm in this rabbit-hole now after deciding to re-read The Bell Jar for the hundredth time. I put the book down and stared at my ceiling, my mind running over and over some plot ideas. None would appear, though; only past stories I've written -- the bad and the good.
Plath even encourages me to write poetry, something I've never excelled at nor been too interested in. I have written a few poems I'm proud (at least somewhat proud) of, and I did try to do an epic poem once. It kills me to think about it now, though, because I know what I had was good and that it would be great in the end. My built-in editor aborted it before I was ever given the chance to truly spread my wings with it.
Its remains are still in my belongings. Parts are in random notebooks. Others on my writing blog. These parts can never truly be put together in the way they were meant to be because the passion is gone, the vision is gone.
I miss fiction. I find myself retreating to here (or another blog) to write about my own live instead of retreating to the one in my mind. I cannot decide if this is a good thing; part of me wishes that a fictional world still existed in my brain.
I came thisclose to taking a fiction writing class next semester. The only reason I didn't was because the times conflicted with another class I really wanted to take. Part of me wishes I switched the two, for I'm afraid when fall semester comes around again, the writing bug will be gone once again. This feeling is so rare I forget it exists sometimes.