Thoughts on a mind’s hunger: the drive of Writing

My mind tingled recently, telling me to pick an idea from the ether and bleed.

Though, bleeding is all I’ve been doing into my journal, I reckon this tingling wants me to start colouring in the blank page on FinalDraft instead. My predilection for the dark atmospheres of fantasy and science fictions has been substituted for writing about how my own life has been surprising me lately.

Though, if my regular thoughts are not preoccupied with storytelling then what’s the hunger driving me to write stories?

What’s my mind hungry for in order to keep on living? 

Hunger’s a survival function. A pain-alarm reminding one to ingest what’s necessary for living. ‘A running thread’ through things that a writer writes, can be defined by a writer’s hunger. Rod Serling, one of the greats of storytelling, says on his ‘hunger to be young again’,

Part of creativity, of course, is being able to have the capacity to convey that kind of hunger, that kind of nostalgia, that kind of bittersweet feeling – to those who have never had it.

If you think about all the stories he wrote for The Twilight Zone, I guess most of them have characters that are young at heart and the trouble that comes with it. I haven’t seen all of them.

In the same interview, he mentions how plot points are ‘concerns’ – could be considered concerns – which I find interesting when thinking about writing a story. It strips away another section of structure’s surface to highlight a character’s journey. That’s important when you’re thinking about story: don’t get caught up in terminology but emotion.

Maybe I’m hungry for feeling something new to my current state of being? Sounds like baloney.

I’m hungry to write without fatigue.

Maybe I just need to shut the fuck up and write whatever. I got a story for you. It’s about a boy on strings of glass. He’s head’s made of pine cones and his feet two bits of brass. Music chimes when he steps and birds peck at his neck. He rises early, as you could tell, so he’s the one waking neighbours as they scream, ‘Bloody Hell!’ There’s never a night he ponders his dilemma that he’s stuck here looking up at forever. So, he takes a hammer and smashes them strings and with a whistle, he’s back out there, free of all those nasty little things. He soars away on a glass board full of hope, to a better place without dreams, walls, colours and dope.

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