Lately I’ve had this feverish desire to just create – to make things and to get sucked into stories. I was feeling this to some extent before I left for Ireland, but something about the beauty and peace and magic of it, paired with having some time and distance from home, brought my sense of this from focus to urgency.
Don’t get me wrong, having the inspiration and motivation to write, having the focus to be consumed by stories again, has been nice. More than nice. It’s been essential, and it’s been nourishing, and it’s been, frankly, a relief. But it does concern me a bit too. I can’t help but feel that something is a little wrong.
A week or two before my trip, I spent a day at a bookstore – an entire day. I used to do this a lot but hadn’t had the chance in well over a year.
For seven-and-a-half hours, I revised, wrote, and read. I immersed myself completely in lives that were not my own, and it felt good in a way similar to how Ireland felt good. Some of this, I’m sure, is because now that I’m done with school, I’m free to focus my creative energy on only what I want, whatever it is. Some of it is that I’m working on something that’s exciting to me. But I do worry about how much of it is just plain old escapism.
I have the sense that I’m running, maybe. Turning away maybe. Only I don’t know what from. Like there’s a monster chasing me but I haven’t seen it yet, I can only sense its presence there behind me, every once in a while hear a twig snap.
Something I learned about castles in Ireland: beautiful as they are, enchanting as they are, there’s something inherently mysterious about them too, and you have the sense that you never quite understand them completely, or know what’s going on inside them.
I’m like my own castle right now – expansive and dark in the corners, with hidden passages and ancient foundations – and even I don’t know what could be haunting my halls.