La Mulatta Tragique

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11:19, Wednesday, March 28, 2007 .. 0 comments .. Link

I am afflicted with a mental constipation of a year in length now that I have been unable to shake, the effects of which I struggle with even now as I seek to voice the symptoms of my ailment.

Not only do I lack the ability as I once did to create and spout prose as a fluid entity, but I lack the motivation as well. The only reason I write these words now is to convince those that doubt my condition of its severity. I cannot even manage to write it in my own voice and style as these gifts, once willingly bestowed upon me by my muse or creative brain or both if you will, have fallen silent, and I now only am able to express my self under the farse of a Frankenstinian rhetoric, which had been impressed upon my young literary brain enough times in my youth to create a stylistic template.

I am at the psychological equivalent of walking into a wall repeatedly. Perhaps the desire to write would not bother me so much if it wasn't such an intrisic part of my being and personality that I feel as lost as I would if I were a twin whose identical sister had gone missing. The sensation is akin to being sick with a cold and being able to breathe but only poorly and out of one nostril.

I suppose you could say I used to hear voices, but they were never alarming or of the kind I've been asked thousands of times by psychiatrists. They never scared me or told me conspiracies theories. Actually it wasn't vocies but a voice, and the voice drove my urge to write and it was my own as any muse could be. But as I said my muse has gone mute and is melancholy at that. I beg the muse to cheer up so that she might entertain me and she merely turns away from me, convinced I do not care for her well being so much as my own. I beg her to speak to me but she remains silent as though she is so lost in thought that she can't hear my request. And so I observe the world as I did before, with the same eyes, but my thoughts on it are largely plain and I see not need to record them.

My thoughts come in spurts of electricity that fizzle before they ignite, and any genius that might be born is quickly aborted. I can only blame the change in my desire on these mood stabilizers. Alice W. Flaherty records a similar experience in her book The Midnight Disease: The Drive to Write, Writer's Bock, and the Creative Brain.

"It started when I changed to a mood stabilizer with riskier side effects than the previous one...My writing then dried up too. Strangely, I hardly missed it. Rather than feeling crazy, I began to feel grindingly sane. Much too sane to do anything so frivolous as write --or everntually, do anything at all."

As I have said, I enjoyed it at first. Not having the spurts of energy, the fits in the middle of night, having to throw back the covers and leap out of bed and record down every seemingly brilliant thought (which often turned out to be not much more than scribble in the morning). Television became an even larger routine in my life, as did generaly apathy. But after months of no inspiration, and having recovered from any and all stressful life events that would inhibit my creativity, I began to miss the ability to record the state of my existance as I always had -- if not in beautiful prose than in half sentences on scraps of paper, and if not that than in probable plot lines mapped out over months in my mind.

Now I often walk through my life realizing I am thinking nothing extraordinary at all, and it pains me. It pains me that the ability to write comes too now that I have forced myself, but why must I force myself at all? And am I proving anything by writing this now when I am trying to prove that writing is the one thing I cannot do? Perhaps it is a point enough that I am writing about the ability not to.

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La Mulatta Tragique

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