I’ve been thinking a lot about emotions and new directions. I want to turn the work in a different direction, because after almost two years of writing about myself, I feel that the well has run a little dry on the whole subject. I mean, I still plan on focusing on things in my own life, because those are things that I know; I know my own memories inside and out, I know my own feelings, and I have a sense of self that I am in touch with and want to explore. However, the need to write about ever chaotic thought that enters my brain in some kind of sickening detail, to work through every miserable night and triumphant second down to the last drag of every sad cigarette, is something that I am trying to move away from for a while. New directions are never easy though, and the steps and writing that I’m doing to try and move into this new phase of work, all seem like tepid steps into the ocean, which isn’t how great swathes of theme and creativity should appear; instead of thousand word chunks, I end up with post-note scribbling, and stream of consciousness rants that seem to go nowhere. I know that from small things such as these comes better work, and that these are the building blocks of the new steps, but it’s hard to think you have a Cadillac when you’re surrounded by nothing but nuts and bolts.
Sobriety, anxiety, depression, moving to a new city, alcoholism, and writing through all of it has been a great, cathartic experience. I imagine that these topics will come up again, because at least two of them are large portions of who I am as a person. The focus on them may not be as direct as before, but they creep into almost everything I do, and I feel them on a level where it would be almost impossible to exclude them from the things that I write. When I do come back to them, it will probably be in the way that I always have, as something to fight the dark parts of these themes, for my own sanity. They’re too stabbed into me to be pulled out easily. There are a few areas of the last two years that I think I have had the last word on, and I feel that moving on from them will not only be healthy for me, but good for the work, as nobody wants to read the same poem, the same story, over and over again. That would even get boring for everyone involved. Even now, I sometimes find myself writing the same griping bullshit, and it usually ends up in a crumpled ball on the floor, because it has no place anywhere out in the world, except in the box full of like writing from the last two years.
There is so much more out there that I haven’t yet touched on, and that’s what this next year will be about. 2016 was a year where, before I hit a bit of a breakdown, I travelled endlessly. I wrote in all of the cities I visited, and most of that writing is sitting in a box waiting till the end of the year. Reykjavik, Havana, San Francisco, Seattle, Portland, these are places that were all extremely creative areas for me, and the people I met and the things I did all fuelled a huge amount of work that I can’t wait to comb through.
I’ve never been the most positive person, so I somehow doubt that the new direction will be all sunshine and roses. However, a part of me likes the challenge of looking at things with a more optimistic light. It is possible to look at the world and see more than the gutters. Which is why some of the new stuff that I’m haphazardly throwing together and jotting down is in a vein that is far from darkened rooms and miserable tailspins of the soul. That’s the goal at least, somewhere in the murk of my mind.
Writing for me is a very personal experience, which is probably why I struggle to write about something other than myself. I feel my own feelings more intimately than I can someone else’s, and it always feels cheapening or disrespectful to inaccurately represent other people/sexes/races in my own pursuit of writing something good. If that means that most, if not all, of my writing is some nebulous dharma of the self that is Brady Tighe, then so be it, because at least I’ll be reporting on it as honestly as I can, and hopefully, it will help me work through life as I do. As much as it is sometimes painful, I do like breaking down all the small details, thoughts, and emotions of my life into pieces of writing. I find that it helps me to enjoy life more, to see the clarity of it, to achieve some catharsis about working through a problem. Very rarely will I write something about how miserable I am, and then still feel miserable. Probably because I’ve turned misery into production, and production is healthy.
So if you’re paying attention, and care about what you read on here, then hold tight, because things are about to get messy. Writing about being sober and heartbroken was something I had down to a bit of a science; I was a studied student working with gorgeous horsehair brushes on a huge canvas. This next batch of writing, at the outset, is probably going to be akin to finger painting on the back of a fucking newspaper.
And if you enjoyed the old stuff so much that you couldn’t possibly see me writing anything else, then I wouldn’t fret, as there is comfort in the familiar, and I still feel like shit sometimes, drink too much coffee, and feel broken hearted all over again when the nights get long and lonely.
Thanks again for reading,
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