HOME | DD

Description
Somewhere in the depths of my mind is an everlasting well of ideas. But sometimes it's hard to lift the heavy lid. And around it has grown up a tangled jungle called Real Life, making it hard to find amongst the clusters of thoughts.
The very thing that I used to love escaping from has subdued me, caught me in its grasp. I used to write instinctively, without thinking. I hated having to analyse language in English lessons, because I didn't believe that writers put any conscious thought into their work. Now, I'm more than happy to analyse everything I read or write - which leaves less room for sudden flashes of inspiration. I believe that once we start to grow up our imagination weakens, like eye sight in old age.
If course I still write every day, but only my diary and ongoing projects. Which is definitely a good thing; I never used to be able to keep going with a novel for long. I plan my work thoroughly now, to ensure it makes sense. I lose myself in the world I've created (and no other worlds) so I won't get distracted. And when it's finished I edit it until it's immaculate.
And yeah, I love that ability. It's imaginative yet productive. Not totally crazy and random like the stuff I used to write.
But I long to ignite that spark, to write without thinking, letting the ideas flow straight down my arm. To be able to conjour up short stories at will. To start writing a novel not knowing where it'll end, just making it up as I go along. The finished product will never be as good, but perhaps I should occasionally stop making my writing structured and relevant, and just let it carry me away.