I hear dead people.
I also hear living people, imaginary people and people who aren’t even people.
I am a writer, and I am highly confused.
Since quitting my day job to commit full-time to writing, I have found the voices that run rampant through my head have amplified, in volume and seemingly in number.
Before I quit, the anxieties and activities of daily living dampened the voices, shoved them to the periphery, surely as a functioning if not coping mechanism.
Now, without those distractions, the voices push outward, stretching their muscles after years of confinement, exploring their new world with the glee of a four-year-old on a steady diet of Coco Puffs. And here I sit, trying to control or harness them, sticking my pinky in a fire hose opened to maximum flood.
I have so many stories to tell, to record, to witness. But as soon as I sit down to transcribe one, a dozen others poke their heads out of the ground; conceptual prairie dogs wondering if the coast is clear.
I’ve always believed that creativity breeds creativity. I am experiencing that in spades, these days.
I will admit that after so many years of holding it back, part of me wants to let the voices flow unchecked. I want to stand at the foot of the waterfall and let the deluge wash over me, cleansing the grime of repressed enthusiasm from my soul.
But at some point, in some way, I still have to function in this universe. I want to recount these stories to someone, and for them to be intelligible, I have to direct my journey through the eddies that buffet me.
I hear voices. And I struggle with how to deal with them all.