Looking back at my life with writing is a story of many different roads that I walked.
My first contact with writing came in the form of me creating stories for roleplaying. With a few of my friends in elementary I often played the roll of gamemaster in a world where our imagination took us outside of our simple lives: Dungeons were crawled and many an undead were slain, though being much of a pessimist and misanthrope, the troupe of brave men and other humanoid creatures would seldom leave the cave they ventured into. As I grew up this evolved into more typical fantasy writing with the same themes: Chasms wherein beasts and evil dwelt and adventurers trying to escape an inescapable fate.
Somewhere along my adolescence I discovered horror writings of old along with weird fiction, and my stories went from fantastically pessimistic to otherwordly obfuscated and misanthropically absurd. I still wrote about the same depths and the monsters within, but now I was able to write not of the horrors the darkness held in, but also about the journeys and textures that the voyage entailed — and the deeper the void went in my stories, the darker my own mood became.
Fast forward to my early 20s, when I was at my most inspired and creative, and also at my most pessimistic. I look back at the eeriness of the life I led and often yearn to have the inspiration I had back then, if only without the absence of hope that came with it. As my mind decayed, my stories grew larger, more complex, interesting, and much richer in entertaining value.
I eventually forced myself out of my hole, and much like the odd adventurer in those eldritch tales of despair and chimeric despair, I came out triumphant, if only battered, and rarely able to conjure the inspiration that I once had.
For the longest time I convinced myself that misery was the fuel that brought my inspiration forward, and felt useless and failure-ridden when I was unable to go back to my old, inspired self. I kept going through the days and focused mostly in my work and the few other activities I had outside of it, and after a long time I realized how far I was going at some of those, and how good I had become at exercises outside of fantastic writing.
Somehow I had managed to reach farther levels of inspiration by working hard and pushing forward, and even if that inspiration was not channeled through writing, it was still there: The drive to be creative and come up with something new had not left me, yet it had found different means to come out of me, which left me thinking for a good while.
Why should I be good at one domain, while not at another I used to be equally good at?
On this day of Halloween I am sailing on a journey to focus that inspiration and drive into something that I lost many years ago. The same energy and creativity that I apply into work and physical activities can surely bring back my writing, without bringing the anguish of old.
Or will it…