“When God hands you a gift, he also hands you a whip; and the whip is intended for self-flagellation solely.” ~ Truman Capote

I have always written my way out of darkness before. It’s not as though I find my writing to be of any noble caliber. Any writer of any worth should be their own worst critic. I’ve written things I’m not ashamed of, and things I’ve been happy to share with others, even proud to share on occasion. But I also know I haven’t written the things I’d like to have written the way I’d like to have written them. I don’t know if that’s a lack of talent or discipline or focus, or if my time simply hasn’t come yet. Unlike athletics and other gifts, words are something you can come to late in life and still get right. My best work may yet be before me. At least that’s what I hope.

It’s unclear to me how writing translates to other arts and how a writer translates to other artists. I don’t know if the process of the purge is the same for a painter or a coder or a tuba player as it is for me. I’ve known lots of people who call themselves artists, but few were and I don’t often poke around in the heads of other creative people to try and glean from them. To me, asking another artist how they incorporate pain or loss into their work is like asking a celebrity for an autograph — it would say a lot more about what an ass I am and probably end up of little value. The problem with being an artist is that someone is always trying to take something away from you. Not out of malice or even jealousy (although there are certainly those types). Mostly, people are just hungry and those of us who create something out of nothing have the ability to feed ourselves in a way the consumer-only variety of humans doesn’t get. Art feeds, but the problem is that you don’t get to choose the meal, and it can be poison on a stick when it wants to be. And, each time someone takes something from you, it’s a little harder to find the way back. You become a little more hungry yourself. Or maybe that’s just me and my inability to deal with the rest of the human condition, but I suspect not. I don’t know a single creative person that wouldn’t welcome a little more isolation in their life. A few days to shut the door, turn off the world and be alone with their own process. Life gets in the way, even as it inspires and offers up the pains and sacrifices we all seem to need.

Still, I can’t write my way out of this loss. Maybe it’s too soon. Maybe I’m just whiny. Everything seems contrived, unworthy — trite. Whatever the old trick was to twist the pain into product — I can’t get a handle on it. I want to do right by what I feel. If there was anything in me capable, it seems like it should have written its way out. Instead there is only the hunger. Maybe I’m being impatient. Or maybe I just miss my friend.

I want to write something like this and I’m pissed off that I can’t:

…but still the place you live in is that much more drab and empty that they are gone…