Sometimes, I write because that's the only way to get the thoughts out. Nobody else will see them, but at least they're not just inside me.

I'm obviously not a writer but what you have described happens to me when I paint art works. It gets better. I am not to the point where the process is always good though. At first it's all about frustration, next comes fleeting and or long overwhelming times where you enter a ZONE. The zones can kill ya because deep down you know you've got something but you are not sure what so you become obsessed with its completion. The zone is like someone who knows more of what they are doing enters your body and takes over. All other life functions come to a hault. I haven't painted in a while because of the needy new dog but have been getting the "feeling". My problem is that I can't do halfway. I must have the time for obsesstion. Plus, I'm determained not to give in to my ailments so I need daily exercise. So, I'm making excuses about my time.

I am envious of those who can stick to a designated time slot for creative endeavors.

I had not seen justerrilynn's post before writing. Her post made me think of the psychology of flow. Here is a TED talk by Mihaly Csikszentmihaliy:

https://www.ted.com/talks/mihaly_csikszentmihalyi_on_flow

Yes, that "flow". Anyone with ADHD or ADD will know it as "hyperfocus". It can be intense.

I second Rita's thoughts, especially her last paragraph. Heed the push/pull to write, april. That's your soul needing to be heard.

Or you have a compulsive disorder. If it makes your life miserable on a regular basis, it is a disorder. If it is healing, then it is a catharsis. But writing can be very good for the soul. But again, many writers and other intense artists were tortured. Double edged sword.

You ask how you can know if the writing is good. I suspect you will never accept the writing as good. It's a cultural problem for those of us who were brought up with the opposite of the, Everyone gets a trophy mind-set. You would need third party validation- and even then you would doubt.

You must make a pact with yourself about being kind and accepting. You can revise and hone the craft part of the writing, but you should treat yourself the way you treat your children- you can have high standards without being negative.

I like writing letters to friends. I'm also pretty good at business letters, but I love the informality of writing to friends, the loosening of the rules of grammar and punctuation.

Ordinarily I don't keep journals. However, after my husband died, within the first week, I found an unused notebook and picked up a pen. At first I could only manage a few tortured sentences. It felt unnatural, forced, and frankly, awful.

I decided I'd force myself to write something as close to daily as possible. Within a week or so, I couldn't stop. It was like talking to a confidante who was never judgmental, or tried to get me to stop crying, or quailed when I bared my pain and inner longings. It was where I recounted my dreams, shook my fist at fate, and asked questions for which there really are no answers. Poetry emerged, albeit blank verse.

So much spilled out that I switched to my computer so I could write faster. I'd print them out and stick them in my journal.

I also wrote about the good days, and tried to figure out what made them good, and how I could tap more into that source.

Time marched on and I found myself writing less and less. My life was changed, but there was a new normal.

I've reread my journal a couple of times. Eeeek! I hardly recognize myself and how far into the depths I plunged. I thought I was doing brilliantly at the time. I've decided this isn't something I want to leave behind. It served its purpose and there's no need to share it with anyone. I think I may give it one last read, and then we'll part company.

I'm too overwhelmed to answer just yet, and I just listened to the TED talk ( and learned the real meaning of "ecstasy"-it appears I never knew it too well), and I ..well I said it already-I'm very overwhelmed because so many thoughts to everything you were kind to write..and it's like fireworks but not something that I can convey yet -such and such shape, such and such color, you know?

oh I found a right word. it's more like popcorn. a mess.

so obviously I want to let it all to sink some more

for now I just want to say that I'm extremely grateful

because all your answers they do touch exactly what I'm asking you, myself, and more..and it feels less lonely

then it might become questions, and exclamations, and "yes, exactly" and "but whys" and all sorts of things, but at least I hope I'll be able to pace them somehow, you know?

It's strange, that the story is, partially, about some ..feeling of possession one might say, that's hard to explain. I try to explain it to myself there, and yes, I might have gained some more clarity, but it's painful, that clarity, and nothing gets resolved, and for sure not to my inner satisfaction-the more understanding I gain, the less resolved it becomes.

I guess the subject also didn't add..didn't add to my well-being

you're feeling possessed while writing about some sort of strange possession...and you don't like your writing. and you can't stop. And you realize you need to stop somewhere. But every last sentence brings some new freaking enlightment . And you've no idea-does it belong in the story, or it belongs to you, and the story will do okay without your additional enlightments? And yes, you're not exactly you.

Or even worse-you start suspecting, at some point, maybe you're exactly you, and it's just that you're crazy?

At some point while obsessively working on that mess, I read somewhere(maybe on Houzz. and maybe Rita you posted it, but I can't be sure) that if one writes something and they like some sentence, it sounds pretty to them-it's trite and it's better to get rid of it in some way.

in all that mess I wrote there were maybe two sentences which I considered pretty..

I think I started howling..)) even these two-are not good..

(now I'm howling again because I remembered few others. When will it end? And-who needs it? )

okay. I kinda promised I'll stay silent for a while-and as usual did a great job with it..

Thank you..

I used to write compulsively, and I started as a teenager, first with poetry. I had one English teach who encouraged me and who was a friend of my mother's, and so I would show her all of my poems. I wrote because I was emotionally frustrated and neurotic, and it was not always clear to me what my poems meant, but my teach tried to interpret them. She also submitted some of them to magazines, and they got published. I also wrote short stories as a teenager, and some of those got published also, and then I wrote a short play that I was able to produce while I was at university. I was very influenced by theater of the absurd, and I think a lot of what I wrote what not easily understood. When I wrote what I thought was black comedy, people thought it was a dark tragedy, and when I wrote what I thought was a dark tragedy, people thought it was hilarious. Even today a lot of people think what I write is funny even when I am trying to be serious.

I started keeping a diary when I was 18, but my first volumes were lost in a flood. Then I started again when I was about 24 but only wrote when I felt inspired, which was not daily. I was trying to document my mood swings to determine if there were some pattern to them. I felt like I was manic-depressive, but I was never diagnosed as such. Psychiatrists did tell me that I was very eccentric and different from most people, but there was really nothing I could do about it except look for eccentric friends who thought the way I did, and I found plenty of those when I lived in San Francisco. That made me feel normal, but when I left San Francisco, I found that I had only become more eccentric. This runs in my family (on my father's side), and so I think it might be hereditary.

I took creative writing in college and then many years later after I had moved to Los Angeles, I took a class in screenwriting in Hollywood. I was told that my ideas were too odd for mainstream movies, and so I got a bit discouraged from that. I do have screenwriting software but have not used it for a while. What I really wanted to do (and think I would have been good at) is writing situation comedies, but I have to work with a group. I wrote several skits for my Italian classes with fellow students, and those were well-received.

Interesting and definitely something that I have dealt with. I've been writing for a while and have written several poems songs short stories and three books. However I tend towards reclusiveness shall we say and I've shown my stories and poems etc to my family but no publishers or friends or anything.

As far as knowing whether you are a writer or whether you are good or not I think you are a writer if you have to write the story you see and hear and feel. Most of the time writers do need help shaping it into a story that other people can see and feel and hear though. Most people who are writers successfully have some training in how to write. Of course there's always exceptions to every rule but classes do not go amiss. I took some English classes in University which helped at least to shape a story.

The other thing I wanted add is no one is a good artist right out of the starting Gate as it were. Usually the overnight successes have had 10 years of practice.

About that writing advice you remembered from the decorating thread. That was intended as a reality check for college freshmen who had not read or written enough to know good from bad. Not someone who has read as widely and deeply as you and writes as lyrically.

So much stuff that resonates..

I really really -oh I lack words..they all seem so pale, you know?..

I feel like I owe some background info..

I was highly praised as a kid. By teachers. In terms of writing, Too highly and too often, them always going on about how gifted I am, and hard working at the same time, and all the blahblah -and if it didn't spoil me that's because it wasn't a pleasant experience. It was socially awkward..not me, the whle situation was..also they had this questionable habit, of picking the best essay and reading it aloud to the class..and it was almost always mine.

We were mostly asked to write analytical essays, rarely personal-yet still, you write something, and you put yourself into it, and it gets to be personal, and you forget others will read it, you care just about your relationship with the book, and composition, and all. So when they read it aloud-I sat there, and my own words, these were like huge loud rain drops falling on a roof-and the roof was my head..I just waited for it to be over..

One essay, I got away with..it was a memorable experience. We were working on "War and Peace" back then, for a few months..by the way I'm not sure the translation nails it since the word "peace" in Russian means also "world"..and in Tolstoy's times, also meant "people". In any case, it's a huge book, and a huge preparation work was involved..final assignment, before the essay itself(we always wrote essays while in the class..this one was supposed to take three periods..) was to give an extremely detailed plan of that future essay. My plan took two pages. All my citations were prepared, hundred bookmarks and all..

By the time the day X came, the essay was completely written-in my head. I knew every word of it. It was born, it took shape, it existed. And somehow it felt so, so redundant to put it on the paper. I can't even properly explain it, but my heart screamed "no".

So I had this dumb but brilliant idea. or rather-brilliant but dumb. I asked my closest friend to cut my hand in a way that would most definitely prevent me to write-that'll be cutting it between my thumb and my index finger, and the cut should be deep enough. I promised her to cut her too, as she wasn't too eager to write the essay either..but I failed. I couldn't bring myself to cut her. Not nice of me of course. A shame, really. But she did a magnificent job with me.

We went to a school nurse who looked at that bloody mess with horror, and asked "how you did even manage?", and put all these bandages on it.

No, I couldn't write-not that day, not for a week after.

Our teacher, at that time, was this quite prominent teacher..she was amazing, she wasn't an easy person, she held a very rare title of "Honored Teacher of The Republic", and she was like God to us-we admired her and were scared of her to death too, because she had this Gdlike power over us-to do with us as she pleases, while leaving us with our free will..in short, she was a creator. Creators create something that continues to live beyond them, and maybe gets even better in the process..and "something" can be people as well. Of all the teachers, we still talk about her the most..

I knew I'd have to write this essay one day..all the thing suddenly seemed futile to me. I just prolonged this inner sense of disharmony. And piled physical pain on top..

Of course I was her "pet" (which every other teacher mentioned to me if I happened to dissapoint them.."how you, favorite student of such and such.."..another bad habit of theirs if you ask me)..but it didn't mean she'd have pity on me. She was pityless.

Yet somehow she never made me write that essay.

Now I think-she understood this idiotic resistance thing I went through. Somehow..

Yet she was pityless enough to send me, consequently, to the school's olympiad on Russian language and literature, then to district one, then to the city one..I took the first place.

I don't like competitions and being stressed, because I'm stressed 90% of the time as is, competitions or not. But here, she didn't leave me choice. And told me that now I have to go to the Republican one. To represent the city. I needed it like a dog needed a fifth leg..

I really really didn't want to go. I didn't care about winning or not, I just wanted to be left alone. Well it seemed like there's no choice, and I made peace with it.

A month though before this Republican thing, that was supposed to take place in Odessa(I'm from Kiev myself) she asked me aside and told me, a bit awkwardly, that it was decided not to hold Republican olympiad this year.

I was a bit surprised yet relieved.

at home, I told my folks, that the Republican one got canceled.

They looked at me like I'm a moron, and told me:

-they just decided not to send you, because you're Jewish

That seemed like a strange explanation. So what if I'm Jewish? And even if it matters-it doesn't mean I'll win. And even if I'm dangerously close to winning-who's going to prevent them to give first place to somebody else? It's literature, not physics or math..

And why it started to matter when it came to Republic olympiad level?

weird.

In any case I didn't believe this quota thing even though I knew very well it existed.

So when I decided to apply to the university(we could choose just one place to apply suring one year) I chose Department of Romano-Germanic Languages. I wanted to continuue to study English.

Our school was a what was called an English school, and it's only when I went through our modest remodel-which was couple years ago-I fully understood a level of corruption..))

(the thing is-both wife and daughter of Secretary General of Ukraine were on the teaching staff. His wife was a head of school Party committee, of course. When I came to first grade it was still an ordinary building. During three months of summer vacation this thing completely transformed into a design and craftsmanship masterpiece, becoming twice as bigger while at that. I probably should describe it in some other thread, more build/design related-but even Chase bank plus Bank of America plus several others wouldn't be able to pull out something like that..I'm afraid to think of all the money..and where it came from, exactly?..and all poor soldiers of Soviet Army situated nearby who probably were brought there to help too lol)

So, back to Languages-one needs to understand the context.

Here people often look down on humanities, What are the chances? what are the salaries? so on so forth

In Soviet Union jobs weren't much about money..they were about opportunities. Can you take/steal something from your workplace? Can you trade it? Can you make useful connections? That will allow you to get something that mysteriously wasn't in stores?

And we were a big city, a capital..our situation was better by default..

Foreign languages gave one connections to pretty tightly closed outside world. Going abroad? Meeting people from abroad? Getting something from abroad?

It was considered one of the most lucrative departments of them all..

All my classmates, who weren't Jewish by the way-but happenned to know the game much better than me, somehow, tried to convince me not to waste my time. They told me "unless there's some deep secret connection between your family and the Provost, you don't stand a chance. Then why?"

I don't know why I became so obstinate.

I was in love with English-which, in some paradoxical way, I knew then better, as I knew much better Russian too..:) I decided to try

I studied like crazy

And it was the right thing to do since the exam turned to be long and pretty difficult, and there were 500, 600 people in that huge auditorium, holding to same dream.

And after the Board checked my grammar section, my translations, my essay, they talked to me-and even that, I was able to do well, without mistakes and all.

So the Chairman says to me:

-Congratulations! Great job, wonderful answer! We're really impressed..

and I start smiling widely..

..and we give you a "B".

I looked at him all dumbfounded like some confusion took place..

"Congratulations", "Wonderful", "Very impressed"..why "B"?

He looked straight into my eyes, and leaned closer to me, as much as the table between us allowed for that, and he told me, saying each word a bit separately, with a voice that had a hint of celebration in it:

-You would be a very bright student. Do you understand what I mean?

I said quietly:

"Yes, thank you, I understand"

I looked down.

I couldn't meet his eyes.

I felt ashamed.

And-it rarely happenned in my life-not for myself..

That's how the story, or its part, started, and I think I just beat my record on the longest off topic-or was it?) in my own thread..

I usually say "I'll be back".. and I want to..:) but I'm afraid you'll hit me, or something..

(Rita, it was still good advice, because it helped..or so I think..)

..ok..so I'm not upset about it now, if it seems I am, as in the big picture of life-what it defined, really?

I don't remember whether I was extremely upset then..but it might very well be that I was, and I don't remember the feeling as vividly.. To some extent, it was a blow. As I couldn't apply anywhere else..all colleges, no matter what they were, had approximately same timeline.

So while everybody studied -I became this person who didn't. I worked a bit, I went to some courses..the typing ones, and I fell in love..so it was quite a year.

But I guess I was a dissappointment..

We left the country year or a bit more after, and I got busy with other things, and I became more practical-to the degree that I could be practical-and l wasn't sure I'm that great anyway..and if I didn't persevere-isn't a sign I wasn't really born a writer, or a translator, or somebody who ties his life to language arts?

I did have several opportunities to go into translation, there, I felt I could bring some use..and bringing use was my top priority, even though now I know very well that "bringing use" is often ardous process with lots of setbacks..it's not that you''ll feel good while bringing use, and you'll ask yourself every day whether you bring it at all..

Couple times, I was invited to translate..like, an opening to a job. In the field.

First time it was right after I failed with uni..we had a summer practice after grade before last, technical translation..mine was in some scientific institute ..the lady who was in charge really loved what I did as I worked very diligently spending hours upon hours on that stuff, and the result was to her satisfaction, and told me:

-after you're done with school, come..I'll get you settled here with us

So I went to that institute. After I failed. And asked for her.

And they say:

-she changed jobs, she's not working here anymore.

Now I'd say:

-what a pity! She asked me to get in touch with her. Can you be so kind and help me and maybe give me a number where I can reach her?

But then I was 17. So it didn't even appear to me. I just blushed and said "sorry, thank you for your time"and left.

Another time was even more stupid. One of my friends-was years after-she worked in this huge important organization and they needed translators in my field.Part-time thing. So she arranged for a meeting-and they loved me.

Bit I was very into my field, and translation felt like it would take me away from it too much..

So I said "No, I apologize, but I'm not sure I'd be the best fit for you",

Said "No" to organization where one kneels and says "thank you!!! everything you throw at me-I'll take"

Third time, it was already my initiative..one college opened this unique program..translation with three languages "Russian-Hebrew-English"

Would require me to take a full day of work..and maybe spending the night there, coming back in the early morning

I talked to my job and they were fine with me taking a day.

I came. Long, long exam. So long, then when I got to the last part-which was some personal essay-I made a lazy move. I just put there one of my poems. One that I liked more than others..

I was accepted.

They called me and asked me to come and said "the problem is, you got accepted, but so few people did we can't afford to open that group. Financially speaking..We can give you recommendation letter to the university that has Masters with similar program.."

University, a very good one btw, was also far away, a bit easier to get to than that college, but still far..and it'd be two times a week, which would cost me my job..and it'd cost twice as much money, in comparison to that college program..while I had to work and earn money, not to spend it. we had two kids by then..

I spent almost 7 years in my university studying something else-and it wasn't languages-first three, were fully covered by the state of Israel, fourth, I got half covered by getting need-based stipend, another three of me honing my whatever skills (these years of much higher level of specializing were amazing by the way. i'm still humbled..) -these were out of our pocket.

In short I felt -I can't justify it..

Believe me when I tell you that you, after my family, are the first ones to hear about this Olympiad thing, and that it ever happenned. You tell something like this-you're boasting..

So don't tell anyone else:)

I lost my face just telling you about it.

You're singled out-you're shy and you don't really want to be singled out. I think they didn't handle it well in school, at all. Actually starting from preschool..well our pre schools were notoriously bad and it's a whole another story. Sadists..

Here, kids like to be praised. In general. I think.

We..well we didn't like to be screamed at, or humiliated, we were normal kids, but we didn't like to be singled out for something good much either.

So you never handled well singling out.

You never really excelled-and if you did-it just brought you discomfort

You write poems-and if people dislike them you're discouraged, but strangely, if they like them, which sometimes happenned-you think "something must be wrong, they can't like it for real". So you're not into sharing much..

So this sudden mode change..it didn't feel like my decision..

It feels like I have to. And not to myself even. And "myself" gets to be a very strange thing too..it's like many many pathways...to other people and things..

And whenever I write about myself it feels egocentric thus I hate it.

and whenever I write about others I'm afraid they'll get hurt. In some way..

It's like a mousetrap..

Yesterday after reading all your responses -it got longer..)) the story..

I have this fleeting moment again, when I'm calmer a bit..let's see how long it takes. Maybe the damn story will make me go..

Thank you..it's nice to be able to take a breath, and I feel you gave me your oxygen masks, you know? For a time-being..

You're all very gifted people. I highly admire you. That's why I asked you. Well, that's probably the most understandable thing, of them all..

" When I wrote what I thought was black comedy, people thought it was a dark tragedy, and when I wrote what I thought was a dark tragedy, people thought it was hilarious. "

I think I'd love your work, Lars

Can you Pretend you are writing a novel that will not be seen till you have left this earth? Would that help?

My mom left me all her poems when she passed. This was several years ago. Most of her poems though were written when she was in a very dark place. To be honest, I haven't read them all because I do not want to go back to those days. There is one I really like and remember ...The Girl with Curls in her Hair. The poem is about my sister as a baby. Someday when I'm brave enough to venture back into that realm I think it would be interesting to paint pictures of my interpretation of some of the poems. I would present the poem/ art book as a sort of view of what it is like to live with one in such darkness. But, then I think, who would want to read and see something like that? Then I think, I'm not good enough yet to paint a good interpretation. Maybe I should first hit the poems and see if pictures start on their own accord in my head. That's a big step though or I should say no step after opening the door.

What amazing widows you have opened for us, april. Thank you. I hope you have a wonderful Thanksgiving with your family.

After reading your post, April, I've a writer's quote banging around my brain. The message is clear but the words escape me. Something along the lines of "Who can write your story but you?" but more elegant and evocative. :D (Kills me because I had this quote from a calendar laminated years ago and gave it away just a couple of months ago.)

Instead, I've others for you:

"Have no fear of perfection, you'll never reach it." - Salvador Dali

"We are constantly invited to be who we are." Thoreau

"The greater the artist, the greater the doubt." Robert Hughes

'All art is a kind of confession, more or less oblique. All artists, if they are to survive, are forced, at last, to tell the whole story; to vomit the anguish up." James Baldwin

"The creative process is a process of surrender, not control." Julia Cameron

I hope these words buoy you and make you smile.

I would love to read your story.

Me too April! I would love to read your story.

justerilynn, I easily can:) Since I don't know whether I'll show it..

Actually the recent death of somebody who was meaningful to me was that catapult..that sent me to write..it might sound stupid, but before she died, she left me something that I interpreted like a will

And wills, they should be treated with respect.,

So it became important.

I didn't know of course it'd send me through that little version of hell when I started..

That was unexpected

It requires even more bravery though. To leave something like this-and you're not there to pick up the pieces..

Or maybe you are..?

I think your mother..she was extremely courageus.

It's very hard to show certain parts of yourself to your kids. I suppose. I'm not sure I'd be able to do that for example. For now, I wouldn't want anyone from the family( except for my DH-who's the only one privy to that story..and it's painful for him to read it too..) ever see it.

I don't know how people go through that..when they're completely authentic, and when they're fine -or make peace with, I don't know-with their loved ones seeing all of them,

Of course one can be authentic without writing. But some things, one doesn't say. In life.

And when writing you say them..in this or that way..

Even yesterday..my post was longer. I edited it. It was too much. To share. And it's forum..I've less responsibility..I mean, whatever I say won't have some destructive effect on you..won't make you too sad, or mad, or wondering, or..

So. I think.. your mother, it must take plenty of courage

And for you, must probably feel ..yes, like that door..

I really, realy identify with "who would want that" and "not good enough"..it's how it feels, and you sharing same, is a consolation, to me, but not helpful to you, I guess

but if that's how it feels..it's normal then?

Is "normal" enough to get through it? I don't know..

If I could choose other forms of expression would be singing, that's for sure

(but I can't sing)

Or painting..

Or poems. They're more..I don't know. Concise? I consider them very high form of art

One says more while saying less.

(I wish was a novel..it's a story. Novel would kill me..

yesterday I had a fleeting moment-today I'm not sure anymore. Lol.)

I don't know how to say "thank you" in a way that will reflect how grateful I am.

Rita, you're very kind You always are.

I wish you, and everyone else, Happy Thanksgiving too

tartanmeup, these are wonderful quotes, and they indeed made me smile

It's good we can't reach perfection I guess..it doesn't really exist here on Earth.

That's my interpretation of getting first people out of Heaven story..

you give somebody free will. you make sure it's free indeed.

why should they stay in Heaven? What's their role there, then? What's there to improve? It's whole..

no they should go and exercise it somewhere else. Where it's not perfect..

April, do you have dreams of the deceased? It's a fantastical thought but I like to believe that we can be reached through dreams. Not regular dreams but those dreams that have a sameness and repeat themselves over several nights in a row and can also continue as awake dreams. Although my sensible realistic side tells me it's hogwash to believe in such nonsense, in my experiences they had real meaning. If a recent death has catapult you into needing to write perhapes you could revisit a few things/thoughts/writings of the deceased to further open the mind. It's strange that often it's more things related to the deceases life and not actual "the deceased" that emerges. That might help carry your story forward.

My sensible side is very small..:) it tells me everything can happen because it's hard to think of reason why wouldn't it, you know?..

Yes..I do have vivid dreams. Of dead, of alive, of people I never met(even though they say one can't imagine a face he never saw before, which rings as true.).some dreams do strongly feel like a person -the one you know well, or knew-is trying to get in a contact with you, tell you something. Like he's calling you, in a way.

I know a bit about dream interpretation and all, metaphorical way to go about that, and it's interesting I must say

So I "know" it might signify this or that, not related in a very straightforward way to that person-or sometimes it feels like yeah.. might be that it is contact with that very person..

That death was too recent. I didn't see her in a dream, not yet. I've nothing of her..not material, I mean. It was our last talk..I didn't know it would be last, I could've guessed but I didn't..she knew.

I talk to her in my head which is pretty stupid, I do that sometimes..but that's when I'm not dreaming.

..I'm really scared to resurrect this thread-to the point I'm shaking as I write it-but I need your advice...rather, your opinion

I'll try to make it short. the thing is, couple weeks before, I got a third-party validation

she's somebody who I (not only I but that probably matters less) consider one of the best contremporary authors that write in Russian. Also the closest to my heart. There are many who I can relate to and who are amazing-but when I read her poems the feeling is of incredible closeness..like I could write it if I had her enormous gift.

She writes prose too

she's also somebody who by all sorts of mysterious ways became my friend afterwards

you start with fan adoration..then years go by, and you percieve a person as a whole..not only that great poet, but a person, and you know a lot because you share things..everyday things, life things..and some tragic things-you know them too, and it's depths of pain I wouldn't wish on my worst enemy

in short I had to get rid of that story in some way. I mentioned it to her-she was kind enough to ask me to send it to her

So I got feedback. And it came to me as a huge surprize somebody other than myself can read it and relate to it, and laugh and cry a bit too

She's not objective of course

Then it contained some very valid critique as well. I knew the critique to be true, and knew where this failing on my part to develop the story better could come from. Yet I was so elated it's readable, you know? It was even great to know where it wants improvement-it meant she's a bit objective too. And her non-objectivity is happy to me, and her objectivity is too.

So I wasn't going to rework it.

It lasted several days, this elation. Then something hit me and pushed me to develop the story more. With more insane cruelty peeking through it all.

Then again, within couple days.

I didn't feel well at all. I had attacks etc. I mean it was cruel even for me..I admit I tried to lighten it some afterwards.

Tomorrow it'll be two months since I started this stupid story-and now I have this second draft. I'm not sure it helps to achieve the result where it was lacking and which she pointed out to me-but it probably makes it for more ..I don't don't better or worse, but more.

Now, the egotistical part of me wants to send the second draft. She told me she's saving the first in order to re read it.

The other part of me knows that what I added there-it's something she'll be able relate to, yes, and maybe even make it all relatable to a greater number of people-but it will bring her pain. Maybe lots. I touch there on a subject..in short, the prognozis is not good. In terms of how will make her feel. And I care for how it makes people feel..that's the reason I dropped it on her thinking she won't get hurt if she chooses to read that story.

If it were you..would you be content just keeping the second draft to yourselves, never finding out whether better or worse? Would you still send it, hoping you're exaggerating in your capability to bring pain upon others, and others will be alright? Would you seek fourth-party validation, even though you've no idea who that might be?

I can't start another story unless I'm in some way to get rid of this one.

It's interesting that you can't stop writing for yourself-but part of you does go with the needs of a reader..whether such reader exists in your own imagination or doesn't..with the needs of whover described there..and so on and so forth. You're afraid for them all. It's only yourself you don't feel sorry about..yes, you're in pain, but you're not afraid for yourself.

Now I'm sorry to emburden you with this psycho stuff once again..it's just hard to handle. Phyically hard to handle. Makes me sick. So I fully realize I'm doing here something egotistical too-that's a sharing that you don't need, but I need as it is too heavy to hold.

That still was long so thank you in advance if you read it even.

It is as I said earlier...write so that the thoughts have somewhere to go other than your own head...

Anyway, congratulations on getting validation from a source you trust...it's important for lots of reasons, yours being different that what mine would be.

As for your question...I'm not such a good one to answer as I imagine that I'm the source of pain even when logic tells me otherwise. Self esteem and garbage upbringing, etc...oh well. So I would find a third party...but honesty would compel me to explain to the author...and that comes from some form of guilt, also, I think.

Your reasons for doing what you do are unique to you, I think. Those would be mine, but does that matter? I don't think it should. I hope it doesn't, anyway.

" honesty would compel me to explain to the author"-yes..I do feel compelled to tell her.

then though it's like I'm still putting her in the position to read it. Even if I say-"I followed your advice, I don't think I must send it, but it influenced me in such and such way, it was really important what you've said". Even though I did already answer right away that she's right in telling me this important thing, and I'm grateful, because I see and feel it's true..and I know reasons for this, or so I think.

So yes, some form of guilt too.

What your reasons would be, Penny? for showing it in the first place? I realize it's a stupid question that's hard to anwer-I know I find it hard to explain mine, as some of them come from an illogical place. Actually all of this-there's hardly logic to it all..

Drugs, one at least takes to feel better..

I would be incapable of not showing your author friend the revisions you made at her behest/prompting. What better way to validate the time and effort she put into reading and commenting on your work? I think you started a conversation with this friend of yours. Showing her the revision seems very natural to me.

As for the possibility of causing her pain, perhaps a trigger warning in your cover email? As far as art causing psychic pain, I am a believer in the utility of exercising those feelings and reactions through art, literature, theater, and music (never film for me though- only happily ever after movies are allowed in my world.)

And april, you are never being egotistical (never-ever.)

Honesty is always best, I think. Edited honesty, at least, for fear of doing harm.

Perhaps underline (metaphorically) why you will be sitting on it for a while...your belief that it might cause distress and your reluctance to do so. I think that's enough. Give yourself, and your work, some time with that.

My reasons I did write out, but deleted. It had to do with screaming into the dark.

" What better way to validate the time and effort she put into reading and commenting on your work? "-I guess it never occured to me to look at it like that, so different..I have to think. Even to think why it never occured to me.

as for trigger warning and underlining why..oh yes, that goes without saying that I'll have to do that if I bring myself to write that letter..well I'm to write soon anyway, I mean if I'm to mention the story at all.

It'll be very hard to do. To find the words. To explain even why I'm sitting on it. We do have this sort of strange connection..she'll guess.

(here was the edited part)

..You're the best. Thank you.

I might edit some of my posts later..as it's not about only me anymore.

I'm so glad you've still working on this story, April, and so happy for you to have found such an esteemed first reader. (Sorry to read how strongly the story is affecting you though. Keep pacing yourself.) You've gotten great advice from Rita and Penny. Just wanted to add/echo that a creator can't predict how an audience will react to their work nor can a creator assume any particular reaction either. How often does an audience misinterpret the creator's intention? And how clearly contrived is the work when a creator creates something with the audience's reaction as the sole goal?

Thank you, tartanmeup. You're so very kind. I'd also be glad if I wasn't so inquiet..already ran here to edit and all..still looking what I should wipe out lol

Well I agree of course..(and it's cool that everybody interprets in their own way..maybe that's one of the best things that can happen to a story, even with all the danger and unpredictabilty)

the thing is only two people are now my audience. One is my husband, another-my friend. And to both, I'm afraid and reluctant to show that damn second draft. They're too close an audience..

What a mess. You involve just one person. Then just another one. I knew when showing first draft to my husband it'll be painful. I was right since it was. Now I can assume with great degree of precision that second will be painful to both.

I can't just drop it in the world wide web.. it'll be easily recognizable. In case somebody who knows me or read me anywhere else will stumble upon it. (and you know me, i unfortunately ramble. lol. and in Russian I ramble in a very easily traceable way. because of my idiotic stylistic quirks I developed-well they are the ones that people either don't get-or like a lot. I'm okay with both reactions. I mock myself in the story about my own writing too, as I notice it lives somewhat independent-from my hand- life..that's the lightest part, I have fun with that from time to time.)

So. People I know have a chance to get hurt. Audience I don't know won't even see it. There are sites where one can come and upload a story, any story, anonymously or not, these are huge and hold everything, from good prose to lousy efforts at such. Thousands of authors. I personally can't bring myself to read anything there, so huge and overwhelming it is.

And I have to let it go somewhere, so it will let go of me.

Of course can't delete it either..frankly don't want to delete it now. If to tell the whole truth, and nothing but the truth.

I know, I am an idiot. And I'm sorry.

But right now, this very moment, I'm an idiot in somewhat uplifted mood:) And I'm grateful.

You have gotten some great advice above!

Is this story suspenseful? I’m feeling very suspenced with wondering when I’ll have the opportunity to read your story. Right now I’m thinking it’s also a mystery with the mystery of what could cause those that you love so much hurt. How does it end? I need clues lol,

(((April)))

Is your writing cathartic or is it more for an audience? I can only imagine the difficulties of walking that very fine line between the two, if that's your intent.

justerrilynn, as it's pretty much autobigraphical..they all end the same, in a way, the question when))

No mysteries..yes secrets and lies(c). Stuff that I wouldn't want my Mother to read, my brother to read, my kids to read, etc.

Unless you count all sort of strange things and connections and relationships happenning to us that we can't readily explain as mysteries of sorts. I do make a big attempt to explore and explain, and make parallels, and I do have sudden insights, as I write, as also understandings that took me many years to get to, and I already know them, yet it doesn't really solve things. Things continue to hang so to say. They're unsolvable. Maybe they don't want to be solved. They want to continue to hang..

So with all my insights-I leave them to continue to hang..

' You must agree, I think, that the thread can only be cut by the one who has suspended it? '

It's not that I wanted my husand to read it too-it just felt like he deserves to read it. Also, if you can't do anything but to write in some crazy state, and goes on for days..you owe some explanation. So I told him "Listen I write. You'll be the first to see it if I ever to show it. Just let me to, and give me time, and I'll share when ready".

Penny, yes, that's the problem, hmm..it's both cathartic and for an audience, and yes, it's precisely my intent-walking the line. I talk there to three ..people, the unknown reader, the main hero, and myself from time to time. Which pretty much reflects how it goes irl..well at least for me as sometimes I walk rounds in an empty room and talk to myself and then I catch myself I'm talking aloud.

Oh guys. You're so, so kind to me. So incredibly kind. Can count as another mystery..

The Mysterious & Unsolvable April.

it's both cathartic and for an audience, and yes, it's precisely my intent-walking the line. I talk there to three ..people, the unknown reader, the main hero, and myself from time to time. Which pretty much reflects how it goes irl..well at least for me as sometimes I walk rounds in an empty room and talk to myself and then I catch myself I'm talking aloud.

That is perfect. To be able to capture this in a story is breathtaking.

justerrilynn )))))))

well everybody and everything is..the moment you start being interested

even math, with it's seeming precision and solvability(does such word exist?)..I can only assume as I'm bad at math. But people who are very good at it -they probably continue to fall deeper and deeper. Or climb higher and higher, I don't know. Or maybe they climb and fall at the same time. Which means, in a way, they're hanging..?

Actually, I'd like for a story to be translated to English-that'd be safe enough. Anonymous enough. Gives me sense of less danger. Somehow. But I wouldn't be able to. And I don't know whether possible. Because of the fluidity of gender pronouns(c). I switch there between the modes..not consciously so, I notice it afterwards. Important to the story, but I wouldn't know how to translate it, in a context of completely different grammar.

Thank you, Rita.

I think-this, I was able to capture..probably..

the critique was that it's easy to fall in love with me more and more during the story..but it's hard to love the other main hero. And as my friend said-a reader should be able to love him. Or at least, to hate him.

And I knew of course why-it's a real person, this hero. Of course I'd try to protect him. Cuts one's wings, to a degree. I'd try to protect my husband who would read that, too. It's like trying to wave a hand, with your hand tied to your body. Of course it's a failure-it was destined to be.

Especially as I've no idea whether I myself love or hate the main hero, lol. And it shows. But to a reader, it's not helpful. A reader needs more.

So that was what sent me to develop it more. I untied my hand..not fully so, but loosened the ties so to say. And I was surprized at myself as I wrote, and not in a good way either,

And I don't know whether I achieved the purpose, whether it's easier now to love more the main hero, or at least to hate him.

But I know it's easier to love me less. When reading.

Well it's also good I suppose, in a way, since it's honest.

April, I’ve written a few responses but just deleted. need to find some time to convey my experience. Thanks for starting this thread.

Oh I was late to read them, nutsaboutplants. I hope very much you will...find time..

and thank you..

Houzz ate my post-actually it's a sign not to write it again

But I don't know where to write it.

Also you are wise people, which can't be said right now about me. I'm dumb, and extremely unpleasant to be around..weeks of migraines drive me crazier than usual, and if I was a dog, I'd bark and bite.

Well it so happened I'm not a dog, so I must bear my unpleasant persona..without barking and biting..

So, to follow up..I didn't show the second draft to my friend back then..but from time to time, something inside me would push me to jump and run and work on it some more.

It went for a year (the story is 35 pages. lol. a year!). When I looked at it I felt sick. Literally sick, like one gets sick on a boat in the sea. Nauseous..

Only I couldn't get off the boat.

It so happenned that my friend asked to see a final draft. I thought for several days. I was afraid of making her sick too.

Then I sent the draft saying, that in all sincerity, it's probably better if she never reads it. But if she does one day-then I, in all sincerity, ask her to tear it apart mercilessly from the outside..both things will help me to get rid of it, probably..leave the boat.

I got an answer after a few days, and right away I knew it's a miracle I was never, ever hoping to get. I knew that because I was blinded for several moments, and then deaf foor a couple hours more. "There's thunder, there's lighning". Like a storm. And then it gets really quiet..

She wrote to me it's real. It's real real. It's literature. She wrote to me that if she was a publisher of some big heavy magazine, she'd publish it right away..

I re-read the story..same feeling of sea-sickness..

Now I have this undeserved miracle. And it's really scary.

If I keep it as is-I'm still on the boat

If I try to see it published-it's scary as hell..it's autbiographical..it's taking my guts and spreading them..even if I take some pseudonym..

The moment I let it go-it's not mine..

Also. rejection is hard(hard to believe somebody would want it. Even when my extremely talented friend tells me so). Asking alone is hard..I, like many people, don't like to ask that much.."Can you take a look at my story?" makes me shudder..

I was hardly able to show it to somebody very close to me..

What drives peple to see their stories in print at all, well, besides hope of gerting paid. maybe? Are they afraid? Were you afraid?

I'm so dumb. First, compulsively wrote the stupid story..for a year.))).

Then -got a miracle..

So, where's my relief, where is the happinness, why am I still on the boat?

Why I'm so scared?

Maximum, I don't have to do anything..it's not like somebody's checking on me..

You have your wits about you, I don't. You have expeience maybe that I don't have. Any words of wisdom? Or I don't know..any words?

I replied to my friend of course (gadawful letter)..but I need to give her a break from myself. It's too much of me as is.

Thank you if you made it through this long post.

April, so very glad to hear from you. I have no position from which you might listen to my suggestion for what to do, but I know you are someone whom I love to read.

Sometimes you should trust the miracle.

Well, it isn't a miracle really, I'm sure, because I know how you write and a little bit of how you think. I would very much want to read what you were compelled to write.

Have you participated in any writing courses, groups, etc.? I was encouraged to consider a career in writing as an undergrad, but never felt I could make a living at it, so I abandoned that idea in favor of a business career. Yeah, blech. Anyway, I've always written but mostly for myself, and I've only published a few small pieces over the years. In the last two years, I've decided to take another stab at it. I started with an online course, and have since taken two ten-week courses, and attended a writer's conference at a local university last summer. I think the best thing about this is being surrounded by people who likewise feel compelled to write. The feedback when workshopping pieces has also been hugely helpful. I think you might enjoy it. Remember, we don't regret the things we did, but the things we didn't do....

I hope you don't take my silence as disregard..I'm just mad as a hatter..struggling to say things that.will make minimal sense, at least..

thank you...