My life as a writer is a very solitary existence. Outside of my therapist, brother and sister and my fellow cult survivors on the internet, there is not one who has walked directly in my shoes and understands why writing my post cult experiences are just as daunting as writing Cult Child was.
It is different writing fiction from fact. If I was writing fiction, the ideas would drift from my fingers onto the page and the worst I might deal with is the daunting tasking of actually making myself WRITE.
It looks something like this:
Set the timer.
Write 20 minutes.
Off 20.
Set the timer.
Write 20 minutes.
Off 20.
Set the timer.
Write 20 minutes.
Off 20.
And it continues until….
MAYDAY! MEMORY SHUTDOWN!
This happens when I hit an empass like writing about a body shaming experience, one of the times I was raped as a teenager and more than anything, having to deeply recall conversations and the way that my mother manipulated us in every day small little ways. Her language, her body mannerisms, the things she allowed me to do as a teenager versus the things I couldn’t do and how grossly imbalanced these things were in regards to what actually is and isn’t okay for a teenager.
Yet, this is also a part of my therapy, writing these words, mashing the page, getting them out, shutting down and curling up in a ball wishing I could cry, the anger, the triumphs, the fact that I’m here, writing about it and hoping that other humans even give a shit to pick up the pages.
I am envious of writers who pound out books like grating cheese. Still I manage, juggling my life in the hopes that somehow I can push through this sequel. I write, hoping that when this is finished, I will feel some kind of completion of this phase; that I can purge these emotions enough.
and then I get to finish the fun novels; the series I’ve been working on when I need a break from the emotion.
venniekocsis.com 