Outpour

Last week, I was able to unearth a full-length play I had written in 1997 for an international contest. I was surprised the draft still existed. (Though I shouldn't be, since I keep a lot of my old things.) I went over it and was mortified at its attempt at profundity. The lines were uninspired and mechanical, and not a few of the plot points were....well, pointless. Then I thought, did this piece turn out so hollow because half my heart wasn't in it? Was it because I wrote the thing for nothing more than a flicker-dream of a cash prize?

I've heard of fiction writers who churn out their most moving works when the negative emotions begin to overflow. (Or, if you're Edgar Allan Poe, habitually inebriated.) It's as if the most potent form of creativity had decided that anger, anxiety and depression were the best places to set up shop. Like it thrived under volatile conditions.

I used to be in that place, wherein my desire to express myself creatively was indirectly proportional to my level of contentment. I've experienced how much my creativity went on overdrive as a way to pour out whatever turmoil I had inside. It can be cathartic, yes, but I don't want to become a writer who has to go cuckoo just to get a writing job done. It's emotionally tiring, and doesn't leave much energy for other activities.

Not very healthy, right?

This is why I want to learn the hard rules of form and structure, and whatever it is that professional writers learn. I want to learn about technique, the tricks writers use that get the message across with loads of literary gravity and less of the emotional investment. That way, I don't have to resort to stabbing myself silly. and writing my masterpiece in blood.