Written Insanity

  Writing is hard, drawing is even harder, and God forbid I open FL Studio and try to make music. It’s not a struggle due to a lack of skill. In fact, I would say I am pretty good at these things. And my experience as a game developer has made me fully confident in my capabilities. The problem is that the antagonistic voice in my head tells me that something is missing from all of my endeavors.

  He says, “You wrote a story that many people are hooked on. But… I’m not satisfied. You should have done this, or that, actually no, do this. Yet, maybe you just don’t have the life experience to write this yet. Or maybe you did 5 years ago, and you forgot everything you should have known. You’ll be a better artist in a year, wait til then. Why didn’t you draw yesterday? You should have made more music, now you’re rusty. But first, you need to learn more about music before you can make something.”

  Being under a lot of life stressors does not help. I had a pretty nasty panic attack yesterday. So today, instead of writing, I took a break and spent hours playing MareQuest. I feel a bit guilty, because I plan to release my next game in the spring. And the voice in my head says, “That panic attack was stupendous, this is the perfect opportunity to write one realistically.” The voice has no care for my well-being. I am unsure why I even listen to him.

  Perhaps I imagine that he is the key to my success. Like I need someone to whip me into shape to ensure I reach my potential within my lifespan. But he was never there when I made my first game, my pride and joy, the creation of my infantile soul as pixels on a screen. The second I hit “publish,” he was born, and in a year has reached his incessant teenage hood.

  Reading helps, it entertains him. Books are toys that give him direction, rather than blindly shooting in the dark. They also inspire me to be bolder, say exactly what I mean exactly how I need to say it. Especially because these books tell a story for a reason, not to make money, not to please anyone (more so displease), but to escape the author’s mind before they go insane.

  The solution must be to be dissatisfying. To write something so horrible that the voice vomits and abandons me. A story so bad that once I complete it, I have no issue ridding it from my mind the second it’s published. Creating something that troublesome would be freedom. It’s not my business whether someone enjoys my writing or not. My responsibility is to create art, and nothing more.

  I dream of being so dissatisfying, that my work is beloved by people who struggle much like I do.