Recently, someone close to me set me on a month long binge of indignation and righteous fury.
It was accidental really. I was speaking with this friend about the ideas rolling around in my head, which I had lined up for the next set of books I wanted to write. All my friend gave me was a raised eyebrow, and a short sentence that asked if I was going to continue to write material which might be offensive to our religion.
Um, yeah. I am. I don't find what I write offensive. I am not forcing anyone to read what I write. As a matter of fact, I don't tell many of my family and friends I am an author because I don't want them to feel any obligation to my books. I have a specific niche. I'm okay with the knowledge that everyone doesn't like or approve of it. I write what I like to read, and hope others, with like minds, enjoy it too.
For about three weeks I forgot that.
I wrestled with my friend's eyebrow raise, and short censorious sentence. I was hurt, and angry by turns, all without saying anything to my friend. The worst part is, I didn't write. I write for enjoyment, but also to ward off depression. Outside of my children, writing is my life. It brings me joy. So, for those three weeks, I felt like I had a broken heart.
Finally, I snapped out of it. I came to grips with the fact that my friend was coming from a difference space and set of experiences. She definitely didn't mean for me to end up obsessing over her innocent comment for so long.
I won't stop writing; even if I stop selling what I write. I can't. I've been doing it since I was a young child. Plus, what would I do with all the voices in my head? It gets very uncomfortable if I don't let the dominant ones out. All those characters start to pile up.
What makes you feel alive? What makes you feel like you? What couldn't you live without?