Of Dreams and Stories...

Every morning I wake up and desperately try to go back to sleep.  While sometimes it's because I'm tired and need more sleep, it's most often because I'll have had an intricate and intense dream that I want to go back and finish, because I must know how it ends.  This compulsion applies to all books, stories, movies, series and songs that capture my imagination.  There is nothing more annoying for the imaginative than a story ending prematurely and without an ending, as it were.

I've had this idea for years now, and the past week I've voiced it several times: if I could hook my brain up to a visual projector and recorder while I sleep, and then sell the results to film companies, I'd be a multi-billionaire.  Possibly the quality of cinema would improve drastically, and many film viewers would be left feeling like the ground they were standing on disappeared.  The universe would be filled with so much 'what the fuck?!' that it would seep into the collective human subconscious and, probably, make the world implode.

Alright, alright, so that last part was excessive hyperbole [haha, haha!], but you get the point: my dreams [and nightmares] are incredible and awe-inspiring.  It's such a shame that I frequently forget them within 10 seconds of waking.  Not so with this morning's dream, which so captivated me that I'm working it out as a story.

It's funny how writing hits me.  I call it the itch.  When it strikes, I feel compelled on all levels of existence to grab something, anything, to record my ideas and get the pictures in my head out.  It's kind of like an exorcism, expelling some presence from deep inside, or a purging, but what comes out is a positive thing and only gross if my creativity takes me that way.  It's spontaneous, overwhelming, and feels like it just won't - and can't - be denied.  Translated into words, my body tells me 'DAMMIT woman get writing now now now now NOW NOW NOW NOW!', varying from a whisper through to a bellow.

My psychiatrist [go on, get over it, I dare you ;) ] said there's a weird connection between mental illness and creativity, and speaking from experience this is true in several ways.  Some of the most intense things I've ever written are a result of the ghastly misery I suffered while in cycles of depression.  The more acute my feelings, the more poignant my writing becomes.  It seems obvious then when I say that antidepressants effectively cut my creativity and imagination from my being.  Happily, these old friends of mine only went on holiday, rather than relocating permanently.  When I finally reduced my dose of antidepressants significantly, within a week of my body getting used to the low dose my brain suffered a barrage of amazing ideas, beautiful sentences, and stories.  I wrote one poem in a frenzy at work one day, and composed another two while driving home on the same day - sadly the latter two are lost to whatever graveyard verse inhabits when it disappears from its author's brain.  HOWEVER.  The point is that I hadn't been able to write anything creative, anything at all, for 3 years.  3 years folks.  That's beyond tragic, especially considering I used to write at least one poem every few weeks from the age of 12 to 19.  And weirdly enough, mental illness doesn't just inspire and trigger creativity, it also kills it.  Thanks to depression sinking its hideous talons deeper and deeper after 19, I wrote less, and less, and less, until one day I realised I hadn't written anything in 2 years.  I can't describe the sadness that realisation caused.  It actually is beyond words.  And here I am now, cured of a horrible bout of the Evil Sad, able to write once again, and willing.

Guys, I'm ecstatic.  Join me in a hilariously dorky and gleeful happy dance.

Sincerely,

Macs