Don’t tell anyone I admitted to this, but I’ve been writing.
Fiction. In English. It just...happened. Burst out. People started bursting
out. A deluge of dialogue. POV dilemmas I found myself pondering on lunch breaks,
storylines coming at me at the crack of dawn, descriptions, the perfect blurb
to a story I never sent out, thousands upon thousands of words, as if I’d
been taken over by whatever spirit moves these things, forcing my hand, messing
with my brain.
Is there a pill for this? A specialist? An exorcist? Can you
help me? What am I gonna do? Don’t say, “Write!” I…can’t. I don’t have time. I
don’t have enough time for an orchestrated, concentrated effort. So what do I
do? It’s as if I have to get it out, and those who write, who create anything,
know what I mean. You have to get it out. But why now? Why at all? Do I close
my ears and mind’s eye? Not working. What the hell do I do?!
And I know what’s going on. At least I think I do. Writing
makes me a better translator and translating makes me a better writer, and right
now I’m off-kilter. Too much academia and not enough arts. Too little fiction
and too much fact. Too much discipline and not enough creativity. I’m off
balance and it’s showing. It’s making itself known. I feel it. The pull. The
tug inside. The tug of tales. It’s exhilarating and consuming and bloody awful
and totally inconvenient. What am I supposed to do with it? What the hell am I
supposed to do?
Remember Bukowski?
if it doesn't come bursting out of you
in spite of everything,
don't do it.
unless it comes unasked out of your
heart and your mind and your mouth
and your gut,
don't do it.
in spite of everything,
don't do it.
unless it comes unasked out of your
heart and your mind and your mouth
and your gut,
don't do it.
Remember Nike?
Just do it?
Nancy Reagan?
Just say no?
Gaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaah!
