Hostile Worlds
2014
As I set myself op To Write this evening and wish I could allow myself simply to write, I consider this thing called fear.
A few years ago, I handed the first copy of my first novel to a befriended musician. He is a talented and modest man. After performing for us, he took the microphone. My novel was set in the Caribbean, where he is from and I was born.
He complimented it, “but,” he said, “the world of this novel, in which the main character dwells, is a hostile place. It isn’t the same for me.”
A therapist once said that I keep recreating dramas in my life, situations of fear because it’s what I know.
I am exchanging messages with a past love, telling him: I really need To Write now. He tells me to go do it and sends me a piece of music to listen to while writing.
“Music which was meant to change the world for the better”, he says.
I tell him I’m scared, and I’m not necessarily relating that to writing.
I then say, “writing is where I can create a world in which I am in control.”
A hostile world?
I supposed it all makes sense somehow.