The ones you can’t see.
How much writing comes from unresolved grief? I’m not sure even the writer knows.
You might start with the barest wisp of an idea. You diddle around, you form a sentence or two, and then it’s like you’re channeling another dimension. Anguish spatters across your screen. Venom, confusion, self-flagellation.
You grope in the dark. It feels so…so…alien. So not you.
But it is you. It’s the part that never sees the light of day. The orphaned part that scutters around the trash-strewn alleys where your ego refuses to go.
You’ve got to let it breathe.
Oh, it’s scary. It’s mottled and pock-marked, rancid and and a bit feverish. But it did the heavy-lifting for you. It’s how you learned some hard lessons, found out what you’re made of. This pain isn’t just useful to you, it is necessary to you.
Respect it. Cherish it. Give it voice.
It has a great story to tell.