Thoughts on writing

I write for my blog / witching novel everyday, and I think about writing everyday because for someone like me in this strange new world there is not much left to do.

But tiring and distasteful lockdown jokes aside – I have some thoughts on writing which I would like to share.

Never before in my life have I written like I did within the last year.
The words just came out. The ideas just arrived and the world inside of my head seemed huge compared the world outside that had gone silent and empty.

This happened, although writing had always been a part of my life.
Of course, now and then I shared something with friends and even got the one or the other poem published, but it was very important for me to not let too many people know.
I did not want to be the aspiring writer that never got published. I did not want to feel like I failed writing. I loved to write too much to risk being seen as a writer.

Last year, that changed.

I had so many new thoughts in my head, so many new feelings, and no one to talk to (except screaming around on twitter).
One of the first nights of lockdown Nr. 1 I realized that I had no music left to listen to. I had no music that could give these thoughts and feelings a place. I only had music full of thoughts and feelings belonging to a world that had ended.

In those surreal nights in March 2020, I had to figure out where to put all these thoughts and feelings myself.
I had to understand the new relationship that I had to my favourite boots, now that I did not wear them to go anywhere anymore.
I had to process the new feelings I had towards the novel series which I had been reading mostly during train rides or while having a coffee in a nice cafe.
I was beginning a new relationship with the field behind my house, as the only place I ever go to.
I had to make sense of not seeing my friends or my family, not being allowed to do my job anymore, or even set foot on campus.
I did not feel myself anymore.
I was stuck in a vacuum.
Loose ends.
Empty space.

In this state, hope made me furious.
It made me furious when parts of my family made clear that I had no right to have everything that was going on have an effect on me, but had to keep on functioning normally, while I was completely alone and thousands were dying everyday, sometimes even including parts of my family and friends.
It made me furious when friends did not realize what was going on and said things like „see you soon“.
We did not see us soon.
We have not seen us since.

After a while, I found music that could give a home to the ongoing screams inside my head. I also found books to read, the most important one being „The asylum for wayward Victorian girls“ by Emilie Autumn.
She made sense of a story far from joy or hope. She gave the little things an aesthetic, she put it into songs, made it liveable (is that even a words?).

I wanted to do the same thing with everything that was stuck inside my head.
I wanted to make sense of it, to be able to feel it and feel myself again.
I wanted to write to give words and space and meaning to what was happening to me and all around me and still is.

This is not my real personal diary. I am not a witch and sadly enough I am not able to summon people from around 1600 to have a little talk with them.
But this a collection of images, thoughts and feelings that from my point of view deserve to be heard, read, and given space. It‘s not all my personal drama. It‘s also things I pick up, I witness and hear and want to give a voice to. If at some point somewhere on this world someone will find a strength in this writing that I have been searching for all of last year, I will be very happy.

This being said, I will now continue to write my novel about a witch from around 1600. While floating around in empty space, why not write about a weird Lady about to be burned?