The Nation of the Glorious Turnip

Writing is not a choice; it’s not a decision to be made. That is why it can be a curse to write. It does not matter what is written, or whether it is ‘good’ or ‘bad’, all that matters is that it consumes the mind whole if one does not write. It influences daily life in such a way that when one does not write for a few days, everything starts to matter less and less. It’s an addiction of the mind, a necessity that is not unlike a heroine addiction. The more one writes, the more it is needed. It doesn’t satisfy like it used to do back when one first started. It starts with a small story, or a poem, perhaps even a diary or a blog. Once started, there is only a narrowing path that can be followed. It quickly leads to a point of no return. The writer just has to write one more page to his story, to make it better. The mind is running overtime, like a machine in a sweatshop. Ideas pop up faster than they can be processed, and each idea lost is a thorn in the side. The day job starts to suffer, it is needed to support the writer in his nightly activities, but he doesn’t perform well, and all the ideas that flow away on the seas of office space are a testament to the writer’s addiction. The manager doesn’t know, the colleagues are oblivious, but the writer knows, he knows that the only thing that keeps him coming back to this place are the ideas that take shape in the cubicles. A doodle on the phone or a chat at the water cooler can produce the greatest ideas in fiction. To the co-worker, the writer appears absent minded, as he fills his water cup for the second time, causing a spill. The colleague does not see the giant flood of ideas that form in the mind just bursting to get out. But the phone rings again, and before the end of the call, most ideas are gone forever, leaving only a reminiscing scent in the memory of the writer, each fleeting idea was like a thousand ships sinking together in unison. In a single day, the world dies twice over in the writers mind, but some ideas do last forever.

One day, after the many that came before, the writer will be called into the corner office. The work evaluation shows a poor performance, but only on the job. The writer knows better, and while the writings on the cubicle wall show a burning ambition, he is forced to find a new place for his ideas. The cubicle has left the mind of the writer in a street, where he has no name, with only the ability to write continuously on every surface that can support him.

The next time you express yourself, know that it can be dangerous.