The Rabbit Hole

Photo by Libbi Fisherman

In January, I fell into a rabbit hole, a narrow well, with no way out of the mess at the bottom. It happened innocently enough when I started writing my second book. Thousands of words became a sloshing wrangle of thoughts that went nowhere. The more I pondered which direction to take, the closer I came to drowning.

Over thinking and excessively analyzing my original inspiration backhoed me into historical oblivion. Instead of creating excitement with clever twists and turns, my words painted dark and desperate circumstances with characters unable to withstand their circumstances. I didn’t like them or the story I was telling. Like Rodin’s Thinking Man bracing his head with his hand, hunched over, lost in internal ruminations, I twisted in my own emotional chaos of lost love, simmering disgust, and agonizing ambiguity. 

I mourned for what happened; what could have been; and what should have been. In the end, with no where else to turn, I did the right thing. I forgave myself and my parents for not knowing how to make it better. This absolution was my release, the lifeline out of the rabbit hole. This week I climbed into the open air to solid ground, ready to write the story. A magical relief to begin again. A weight lifted off my psyche.

Why is writing such a struggle? Why must I write? Because it is, and I must. It’s a passion. Others might call it an affliction. To not write is impossible.