“I know how powerful and intoxicating it is, how deeply attached we can become to the world we pour our heart and souls into.”
When I first heard those words, I felt as if Renoir had personally slapped me in the face. It hurt. Because the truth hurts, and I wanted to repress it.
But I got through it—no, that’s a lie, I didn’t come to terms with it—and I'd like to talk about it.
I always thought writing was a form of expression. Describing a fragment of the soul, dressing it in words and presenting it to others. Or hiding it in a drawer, depending on how you prefer it. You bring out what lies deep in the recesses of your mind.
It turns out that’s not the case. Or maybe not entirely. Or maybe I don’t know anymore. Writing… is something more. It means something different to everyone, it has a different value.
For me? The page acts as my therapist. God, I’ve worked through more issues with my keyboard than with any good psychologist. And it didn’t cost me a penny, so I guess I won. But is that really true?
It helped me enormously to treat the story as a diary. My characters say what I cannot say. They fight for themselves when life overwhelms me. I gave them the life—paid for with blood and suffering—that they deserve. Was it because I wanted to? Or because I can’t do it for myself?
At this point, I should feel that this is definitely more than just creating fiction. I was even criticized for writing but pouring out my feelings. I don’t know if there’s anything wrong with that. Isn’t that the point? To bare yourself and clothe yourself in words anew?
Is it an obsession? Maybe. But by interacting with readers who know me as a flesh-and-blood person with a bag of problems on my back—and not just as an avatar on AO3—I let them see more.
So yes. I don’t see moderation. I don’t sit down at the keyboard and treat it as a challenge. Rather, as a need, urge. I have to get inside my own story to feel it. Recently, I’ve been feeling the full message of Clair Obscure too deeply in my bones. If I had known how deeply it would take root in my mind, I don’t know if I would have sat down to learn this story.
Because it hurts like hell.
Sometimes I envy people who can walk away. Treat their own stories as small works of art, small worlds locked away forever somewhere on a disk, shown to the world on their own terms. I envy them because I can’t do that. And I don’t know if it’s slowly killing me or making me better.
I delve into every story, I live it from beginning to end. I can’t leave, I fall into a trance and wake up in the morning. I look at the screen and the characters have done something I didn’t plan. I went there, I saw it, I described it. It was never my story. I was only given the chance to be its reporter.
At this point, a red light should go off in my head. I should pinch myself and say enough is enough. Because these worlds draw me in, tempting me with a better life. Is this creation or escape?
Everyone knows it—escaping into books, hiding between the pages. Writing is worse because it’s a world exactly as you dream it to be. So I feed on my own delusion in the hope that it won’t kill me. Like an alcoholic who believes he still has room for another shot.
And before you tell me that this is normal, that it’s a creative process, that it’s commitment and dedication, I have to add one thing: Is it still a passion when there is nothing else? When you forget about your family, friends, and responsibilities? When my world disappears, and there is only the one I created? When I wake up, go out, and feel angry at everyone who had the audacity to put me here and not there? All I can think about is going back. I behave like a drug addict ready to commit the worst sins just to hide there for a minute longer.
Is it passion or escape?
And what’s the worst part? I don’t want to stop. I love to escape. I prefer to interact with my own characters than with my family. I don’t treat them as figments of my imagination, but as a part of me. Companions who stay no matter what. I prefer their destroyed world to my peaceful but gray one.
I know what you’re going to say. It’s not healthy. I shouldn’t feel this way. I shouldn’t treat my own stories as an escape. It should be a passion, a mission, a challenge. Not the open arms of a lover when the world scares me too much.
But maybe I’m too in love with it to see through it.
