Compulsion

It's okay to give in, I do.

I wish I was referring to chocolate, life would be so much easier.

I’m here to talk about the irresistible impulse to deliver a thing into the world. The overpowering desire to create. An act that serves as a physical or psychological release, thus providing emotional catharsis.

When hanging out with fellow writers they often share they feel compelled to write. Typically, during our discussions, good-natured commiseration ensues, all depending on the particular project one or the other is working on. The cocktails proportionate to the number of narrative puzzles that must be solved in order to finish the work.

Tis a blessing and a curse.

Hours, days, months, even years can be spent on a writing project. Somewhere deep down exists the urge to dredge a story up from the primordial depth’s of one’s subconscious; then, plug away at it, shape it, share it, move on.

I subject myself to this process time and again, with only myself to blame.

Don’t get me wrong, it can be a joyful and fun experience. Satisfying, is a word I often use. I value my trusted circle of friend’s feedback, their input always makes the story better. Collaboration can be a hoot, pitching agents and editors can be a blast.

There are worse things one could surrender to in this life.

These compulsions have existed within me ever since I can remember. They began in childhood and percolate up through today. I’ve explored where they come from and I attribute it to my exposure to a wide variety of storytelling starting in my single digit years. They arrived in many forms: grade school book clubs, piles of old comics in my cousin’s basement, the candy store comic rack, the local book store’s curated horror selections, newspaper film critiques, downtown’s art house cinema, late night cable television, drive-in programmers, double feature matinees, the list goes on.

Regardless shape or form, the stories resonated.

Deep down I believe the compulsion to tell a story originates from a natural urge to communicate and share with other humans. The act of creation is its own healthy form of therapy. Over the years I’ve learned to embrace it.

To give in to it.

Rembrandt Laughing, self portrait 1628 (ish)

I love the above painting. Think about all the museums you’ve ever visited and all the artist self portraits you’ve ever seen - so serious - I’m no Rembrandt scholar, but this rogue looks like he’s actually enjoying himself. A rare sight indeed.

I appreciate that.

Regardless how serious or whimsical the artistic endeavor, the arts offer activities for creative beings to communicate and exercise self-expression: painting, writing, dance, design, sculpture, theater, musical instruments, etc. As a popular, modern day art form stand-up definitely has a special place in my heart. It always struck me as such a raw platform (+ it looks fun, color me jealous.)

Hey, to laugh is to live, no?

The world needs artists.

Compulsion: a strong, usually irresistible impulse to perform an act, especially one that is irrational or contrary to one's will.

Individuals compelled to create, share and communicate through their art hold a mirror up to society. Art can have great impact. Get us thinking. Even popular work has this ability (I’m no snob.) Consciously or subconsciously, it can influence us to course correct mistakes made and provide a sense check for the next gen.

Fingers crossed we writers can exhibit enough good taste within our creative output, that as we barrel toward the corporate singularity, at the very least we manage to entertain our readers and not bore anyone to death.

As a discipline, a writer works diligently to hone his or her craft, and serves as a conduit for whatever story they’re trying to tell. Although a career in the arts is deemed an unrealistic endeavor these days, for the dedicated few, or those who have managed to strike a balance in their professional lives, it will always be a noble pursuit in of itself. The compulsion to express oneself on the page is timeless.

Write on, my brother and sisters.

Write on.

Compelled to eat my feelings.