Writing As Self-Medication

This article was first published in 2010, but still holds true in varying degrees, today...

Writing as Self-Medication

Many novelists have said they write to discover who they are, and in my experience, it’s true.  In writing novel-length works, I’ve found feelings and memories  buried inside, coming through between the lines.  I’ve also found that there is someone expressing himself in the voice of the writing that I’d like to know better.  Of course, that will lead me to write more and more. 

But it seems strange, at this stage of my life, to find myself immersed in a voyage of self-discovery. Especially since I thought I had myself figured out by now.  It isn’t that there are secrets or mysteries revealed – those were thoroughly exorcised decades ago –  it’s more a feeling of familiarity with all the stages of my perpetual reinvention that I’d forgotten. Or chosen to forget.

Life has a habit of putting up a fresh coat of paint to cheer up the surroundings each time you grow into new digs.  Writing has, of course, helped me peel some of this away, so I can inspect the previous finishes.  But that alone isn’t satisfying or entertaining enough to explain the hours at the keyboard, or scribbling away on the legal pad. There must be an additional explanation.

I first began writing for myself, filling those little paperback sized journals with bad poetry, odd drawings and short stories.  I now recognize that writing took place during times of extreme change: upheaval, relocation, failed relationships, illness. In other, over-used words; all the usual suspects.

Writing took me away from sources of anxiety as much as it illuminated those sources.  Very similar to some psychotropic  drugs that enhance reality all the while fleeing it.  When I wrote in those days, I was filled with an over-arching happy satisfaction, no matter the circumstances.  As my adult life became more complex, as I became more responsible; I gradually felt the need to write less and less as my satisfaction now came from other engagements, occupations and relationships.

I passed through my twenties, all the way through my forties only occasionally picking up a pen for anything other than paying work. Writing ad copy, fund-raising pitches and educational materials gave me an income and taught me the value of making a direct connection with the reader. It taught me the value of not adding questions that couldn’t be answered in the pitch. It didn’t teach me to write lyrically, or to write in an easily accessible, entertaining style. It didn’t teach me how to write for a young reader, or how to write for an older reader, unless those were the demographics targeted.

I found a small notebook, lying hidden among the junk the other day. It contained a series of themed short stories I’d written in longhand during my late forties.  It proved that the writer hadn’t been completely sated.  It also was not very good. It was forced, mostly descriptive, with little to show beyond a snapshot of a moment.  Compartmentalized, like my paying work.

I began to write seriously in the 20^th year of our family business, around 1995, when business began to head south in the midst of a mild recession.  Every day I spent in fear that I would not cover last year’s figures for the day. Most days I did miss my sales goals.  We let go of our employees, and as many business expenses that we could pare away without damaging our operation, but it was clear that unless things turned around quickly, we would be history.  I also found arthritis had begun to set into my fingers.  With a brand-new laptop at my disposal during business hours, I set up a network including the front register and began to write.

It was a little uncomfortable at first, but after a few weeks, I was putting away three or four voluminous chapters daily.  A novel was growing out of some college-era ideas and some research, and by the time we actually did see business build again, I had a first draft. 

The words, by this time were flying from my hands and I began to be aware that I was also writing when I wasn’t at work.  It just felt so good enfolded into that soft, warm blanket of my own creation. I didn’t think of anything else while I was wrapped up, just the stories.  Stories set in earlier times, in simpler times where conflict came at you directly and you had to fight it off.  Not sideways, through omission or neglect.  The worlds I was creating were places where hard work paid off and those who endeavored to persevere were eventually rewarded.  Of course, I could still function during these euphoric times. I could still sell an item and ring up the sale, or explain in detail why it wouldn’t be a good idea to use this for… I was functioning. Functioning, but at a reduced level.

It came to me during the grueling years after business again tanked. We moved everything online, and closed our last bricks and mortar store.  No final clearance sale, however; our online operation was holding its own and gave us that small dignity.  I called it retirement, so it wouldn’t sound like failure. When that sad feeling would come up, what did I do? I wrote.  I edited (what I remembered as editing, from my ad copy days)the first book and wrote another one, all in the course of two years’ time. 

Looking back, a few years later, I’m now coming to terms with what I had been doing. What my writing actually did for me.  I was self-medicating.  Now with those two novels complete and behind me, the third in the last part of draft one, and the fourth half complete, I finally can see the addictive behavior I’ve been engaged in.  I’m not decrying the act at all.  It has helped me come to terms with who I think I am and who I really am. Gently. Much more gently than if I’d found other means to reduce the terrible stress. 

What’s left is my work.  That still entices me every day, but the specter of past failures, mistakes and wrong turns has shrunk down to a size I can live with.  I find my approach to the keyboard has changed quite a bit from those days when I’d wear the letters off the keys in a period of a couple of months, but I’m not saying it still doesn’t bring me a lot of pleasure.  Self indulgent?  Guilty.