Bottling Up the Ink
As much as writers are fond of making up excuses not to write, they’re equally adept at finding ways to write and things to write about. Heck, they can even write something about nothingness. One can even say, Never underestimate the output of an inspired writer hurtling down the Creativity Autobahn.
But sometimes, they have to let their pens lie fallow, to leave the ink that is their lifeblood unused in the bottles of their own make-believe worlds. They have to let the emotions well inside, not allowing anything to leak out to a world alien to their own. They must allow the wounds to sting a little bit more, the stress to become a little bit more stressful, the troubles a little bit more troublesome. Don’t write! is the mantra to follow.
They thus (un)willingly defeat, for a moment, the purpose of writing — to express one’s self, to provide an outlet for sick dreams and magnificent nightmares.
But in the end, when these writers decide to pick up their pens and start writing again, you’ll know one of two things has happened: (1) They have survived the pain, the stress, and everything between heaven and hell (well, not everything) bereft of their most powerful weapon — the pen — and pulled through relying only on their own naked selves; or (2) they couldn’t handle the pressure of the overflowing ink, and have let it all spill out.
Item one or item two, it doesn’t matter. One only needs to know that Don’t write! is synonymous with another mantra.
Know thyself.
[Now you know why the Corsarius' pen was inkless for two weeks.]
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