I think if I didn’t write I would go mad. I remember watching the first series of Big Brother, and the thing I couldn’t get my head around was the No Writing Instruments, No Writing At All thing. Even if I’d been au fait with weeing on national television, the not being able to write, for even a few days, never mind weeks, would have stopped me from applying anyway.
I’m sure Henry Rollins wasn’t the first or only person to refer to writing as “Poor Man’s Therapy.” He’s so right. I think he originally meant it in a ‘journal’ sense, which I agree with, but from a fiction point of view, writing a story in which the protagonist gets to wreak whatever havoc they want on their enemies is great therapy, too.
L’esprit d’escalier keeps me awake at night. I spent two hours last night thinking of things I could’ve, should’ve said. I thought my head was going to explode. So I grabbed my notebook and started scribbling away, in the dark so as not to wake up the Mr, and five minutes and four pages later, I managed to drift off to a lovely sleep. I’m going over what I wrote now, and I’ve managed to turn a hellish day at work into a story about a murder, that will hopefully prevent an actual murder. Writing works like a pressure release at times. I can plot horrible revenges whilst still maintaining my sanity. If I didn’t write, I would probably be that woman who shouts on the bus. Or I could be much worse, I could be the woman they find in the textiles department of Debenhams every Thursday pounding her fists into the display bed. I would be escorted home with achy wrists and goose feathers still stuck in my hair.
Don’t get me wrong. Not all my writing comes from this angry well. I’d even go so far as to say only about ten percent of my writing is grrr writing. It’s just at times like this, I’m really glad I have this outlet.