Life Without Art is Just -Eh

by Emma Bush on January 8, 2017

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by Emma Bush (reposted, original post: May 17, 2015)

Life without art is just ‘eh’….in more ways than one.

Yes it is.

I’m a writer. I’ve been writing since the day I discovered I could put words on a piece of paper and tell a story. I suppose writing is my art. I have never claimed to be good at it, its just what I naturally gravitate towards.  If you were to hear me sing or to see something I tried to draw, you would agree with me, writing is definitely the art I’m best suited for.  It turns out that I need art in my life.

I stopped writing two years ago after the 450 page book that took a lifetime to write disappeared with the laptop it was hiding on when someone I had ventured to call a friend decided to steal and sell it. It was a devastating blow. The main character’s name was Hope, as was the title of the book, and after I wrote it I thought to myself, “This is the one I want to publish. This is the one I want to share.” But in the blink of an eye, hours and hours and hours of work disappeared before it even had the chance to be edited, much less shared….and I stopped writing and subsequently deleted every book and most every short story I had written because at that point it all seemed rather pointless. At that time in my life I was smack dab in what I like to call my Whirlwind, and it had been brought to my attention that every book I had written prior to this one had simply been me trying to find my voice and tell my own story, I just didn’t know how to do so without hurting the people I loved so instead I was forced to use my imagination to create resolution for myself.

If I have needed to talk about it, most likely I have not been allowed to. I finally found a way to do it, and then it was gone before I even had a chance to read over it. And suddenly everything else I had written, the stories I had created with characters stronger than myself able to solve my real world problems in fictional situations that resonated with the same themes dear to me, all seemed like a waste of time. And in a very tearful display at my brother’s house, with him urging me not to, I proceeded to delete it all.

I think I was trying to delete myself.

It turns out that writing is a little bit like fuel in my tank.  When I stop writing, for whatever unexplained quirky human psychological reason, I STOP.  So I’m going to write again…and I probably will never stop documenting….storytelling….sharing this life experience in the hopes that someone else out there someday may be glad I did and know they aren’t alone.  Writing is how I make sense of the world around me. Its how I process. It is purpose in my day. It is how I communicate. Sometimes I wish I could walk around with a type and speak because when I try to talk the words get mumbled and jumbled and stutter out of me. Words translate themselves better through my fingertips than they ever have my mouth.

One of the reason I’ve always loved to write is that it gives me a way to immortalize and capture the people and moments that have been pivotal in my life.  I’m a historian.  I’m a note-taker.  You should try it…these are the days or our lives, after-all….and in case you aren’t paying attention, we live in extremely pivotal interesting times in the history of our race and humanity.

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