I am overwhelmed at the thought of writing, because of the sheer volume of thoughts trying to escape my brain. I’m so overwhelmed that I forget my good ideas and think of nothing only the feeling of being overwhelmed. Then I decide to write about being overwhelmed by writing, at which point I become overwhelmed at that topic alone. I do some quick maths in my mind, trying to balance what I want to write against the time I have to write it, and when it doesn’t add up, I put the pen down.
I think about beat writers, the Kerouacs and the Burroughs and the Cassadys of the world, and how they created masterpieces on the road, journals upon journals of them, by dedicating all their time to literature with no full time job standing in their way. I think about how in contrast, I sometimes sneak my phone away to the bathroom for 3 minutes during a quiet time in work to type a couple of sentences into the notes of my iPhone.
I see how the words of the Beat Generation have aged older than their authors ever did, how they’ve grown in value having survived tragedies and triumphs, and landed themselves a home on display in museums all over the world. They are published and translated and remastered, some even adapted for the big screen. Then I think of my own words, and how they can disappear quicker then pen to paper, gone with the misplacing of an iPhone on a drunken Saturday night.
Was it easier in the 1940’s, life less demanding? Or Do I lack their dedication, their passion?
Then I remember, passion and doubt cannot coexist when it’s for the same thing. Passion is a strong, barely controllable feeling of enthusiasm or excitement for something, and when you feel an emotion that strong, it leaves no room for doubt. I have a burning passion for writing, and once I remember that fire, that spark, I will always find the time. And when the words do come out, when the writing begins to flow, I feel anything but overwhelmed. In writing, I am transcendent.