Writers logo

The Disease Called Inspiration

My fingers becoming faster and more precise.

By Empty Poetry and VersePublished 3 months ago 10 min read

The Disease Called Inspiration

B Written By; Akil K.

I think it's fair to say that every artist finds their own unique calling to the path of creativity. Within the many passions that could be considered artistic, generated from the unseen abyss we call the soul, comes a calling. Descending upon the uniquely styled mind is a perspective, and from this angle of perception is born inspiration.

My journey as a writer began with an illness that attached to me at the start of my adult life. I had enjoyed writing at different ages, even being a spelling bee champ at the wholesome age of seven. Although for a reason I yet to discover my talents did not last long. Maybe it was the use of computers in school for most of my life, that quickly silenced my power of spelling. However, the urge to channel creative thought through the pen and word stayed with me all the while. Yet it was the sickness that caused me to lean into the urge to write.

When you find yourself bedridden there are only so many activities you can do to stay mentally stimulated. While entertainment is mind numbing, and a creative mind can only tolerate so much muck before it rejects that vile substance. deciding to read a book instead, or find some variety of creative wand, be it a paint brush, or pen. I'm sure we can all relate to times being sick, yet I can only imagine what being bedridden could do for the skill of a writer. As I must confess this is not the case with my illness.

What I contracted was found deep in a sacred grove, a place where technology of any kind could never dream to go. Not even the dim light of a phone, but only that of distant stars, and galaxies. Here the trees have names, and it's quite enough to hear them softly whispered. The rain is soothing, and the waters cleansing to a place deeper than skin and bone. I'd never been so pleased with life as on this journey into the mountains of Colorado. In her rocky embrace for a month, something shifted in me, an illness one might say began to set in.

On returning to the world of the 21st century I remember vividly my reactions. It was the smell that truly stained my mind. A scent like sulfuric gas, stinking like a public restroom in desperate need of attention. Walking into the convenient store I was shocked by how odd and putrid everything smelled. Somewhat excited to have a taste of the foods I hadn't had in several days. I ate a handful of colorful hard candy, like drops of some chemical rainbow. Its sweetness at quickly made me sick.

Finally home, sitting in the backyard my stomach growled. I had returned from the trip a day earlier than I had told my family. I was not expected back yet, so there was little food in the pantry, and no one to greet me with long awaited open arms. Instead, it was the blaring engine of the neighbor's lawn mower, and the nauseating smoke from his cigarette. The entire trip I had carried a notebook yet did not choose to write in it even once. It was as if this moment of complete disdain, in contrast with the distant paradise, was ment my first journal entry.

If I tap into the recess of my mind, I can just about recall the first couple lines, to paraphrase I was not excited to be back in the 21st century, I desperately longed to return to that timeless oasis hidden in the ponderosa pines.

As time went on, I did not stop, but only wrote more, filling this journal then another. Endless concepts, theories, feelings and analogies filled the white pages. I stained them black with graphite and ink. My thoughts becoming materialized was my newest fixation, given a restored reason to live, I could never be found without my journal. It was an organ like the very heart in my chest.

In some sense a tick had returned with me from the Rocky Mountains, one that latched on to the interworking of my psyche, and forced me to bleed a never ending stream of inspiration. This plague has not ended even a decade later. To write is to live, to breathe, an intrinsic part of existence, the marrow that fills my every bone. Deeper than love, the words that capture the thought is a medicine that stabilizes the essence of my being.

Before long, my writing began to take on different shape and character, expanding first into poetry. It proved to be an ideal medium to share my humanity with the world. I learned through it to communicate, and perform the vocalized word. Then slowly it melded into nonfiction writing, I dove into historical sources, and biology textbooks, compiling what I believed to be original takes of the world around me. Still, it wasn't until I discovered the mystic formula of fiction that I felt truly at home.

It cannot be overstated the importance of using writing as a medium of systemic change and a method to challenge cultural thought, creating dialogue every step of the way. I deeply appreciated what this focus brought me, and allowed me to bring others. Yet quite paradoxically within the non-existence of fantasy, and fiction I found a more profound medium.

The symbolic, and existential can be overlooked as meaningless by the untrained eye. However, within the random paint brush strokes of abstract art is a language that transcends space and time. As within that piece not given clear meaning is an infinite message.

Likewise, within fiction writing is the ability to infuse metaphors within codes that can touch the reader's soul with an indirect precision.

I discovered the vocal media website after a friend who went to a popular creative writing school shared a story she published there. She would often captivate me with her depth of literary jargon. Of which I lacked almost entirely being a self-trained poet.

Drawn by the several aspects of the platform, I immediately began to post some of my creations. Yet I quickly found it more difficult than I had imagined to be consistent. One could say the gods of writing began to show me the kind of devotion I would need to cultivate if I was to pursue this path occasionally traveled. Or in other words becoming a writer is hard work.

Beyond the creative aspect of forming an idea, it is vital to follow through, as an idea incomplete is almost as if it never existed. Even once the piece has been created, it must be recreated again, and synthesized. Each time becoming tempered as if in Multan lava, burning away each impurity giving birth to a complete and perfected essay. Like a sheet of diamond that could be admired for generations to come.

The incentives provided on vocal give a reason to be challenged and step outside of our natural comfort zones. Being pushed to write to different prompts and genres has given me a larger range of work then I would have naturally created. To attempt a challenge is much more forgiving when the pages created through blood sweat and tears are not wasted, but rather develop expansion in your collection.

Gradually I began to push myself to finish and publish more work. Even sharing the link to my articles on my personal social media. I enjoy knowing just how many reads I've gotten, and was pleasantly surprised by the collection of bits of change that accumulated. Every week less words were left dormant in a word document on my desktop. Each finding their unique place within the extensive genre categories.

Although I had continued to develop as a writer, my fire was ignited the month I was selected for top story in the horror category. It was actually the first of my work that I had published to this section and was surprised by the level it was received. The concept a result of finally embodying my story. It was common for me to judge my writing critically, frightened by what people might think, as I tiptoed around the line of the Macabre and Morose.

I finally gave in to myself and was immediately applauded by a community of writers. I was urged to continue down this path of embodiment without fear, I was sure it was the right decision. So, I wrote more, and thought more, and witnessed my writing evolve in ways I couldn't have imagined.

As an environment for literary experimentation, vocal highly excels. Even providing an audience of several genres and skill levels of writers. The community stimulates growth by challenging each writer to step outside of their uniquely formed comfort zones.

Reading the work of various writers unlocks untapped inspiration. Opening the gates of new trains of thought, and opportunity to attempt different forms of writing. There is no limitation to the muses that can be conveyed through the written word.

Sitting at my desk, I slowly spend more and more time developing pieces at various stages of the process. My fingers are becoming faster and more precise. As my vocabulary expands, being more comfortable, adapting a new depth of word choice. As a side effect my ears become more eclectic, as classical music has both the drama and elegance to stimulate a more acrobatic mind.

Versatility is one of the best traits a writer can have, as the ability to access different styles enables greater complexity within every various genre that one might choose as the focus of their psyche. I often think of myself as having several identities each with its own life experience, and imagination. Yet only one of these personas is a writer, therefore I am far my likely to be overwhelmed with ideas, then experience writers block or rather a lack of inspiration.

Each of the seemingly endless categories provides opportunity for expressions from any creative concept that might form. The best part is that the whole time I'm engaging with different goals on vocal, my portfolio is being simultaneously developed without even recognizing it.

Therefore, my vocal goal for 2024 is to engage in vocal weekly, posting at least one of my own pieces a month. As well as attempting at least one monthly challenge every month. The recognition of my story as a top story, helped me to realize my capability as a writer. In other words, it gave fuel to my passion, a reminder to all the solitary nights I have spent deep in the monotony of revision, or pacing in my apartment searching for the proper ending.

Although a victory in a challenge I'm sure would push me even further, as well as provide funds to invest into my beloved art. Still the most profound effect it could have been to continue to cultivate my drive for creative writing. I'm convinced the life of a writer could truly become a dream I actualize.

I do love my career, yet a day does not go by that I don't consider my vision of writing for a living. Sifting through my endless notes, or rather the hoarding of thoughts that I believe have a greater destination. What better life than that of a creative writer, loved for the abnormality of their mind, completely confident in the depth of their expression. There is nothing I desire more. I see Vocal Media as a step in that direction and may in fact always be a part of my literary process. Even as I continue to refine my lexicon, its proving ground will always have a worthy purpose.


About the Creator

Empty Poetry and Verse

Empty and Endless The Heart Of a Poet.

Reader insights

Be the first to share your insights about this piece.

How does it work?

Add your insights


There are no comments for this story

Be the first to respond and start the conversation.

Sign in to comment

    Find us on social media

    Miscellaneous links

    • Explore
    • Contact
    • Privacy Policy
    • Terms of Use
    • Support

    © 2024 Creatd, Inc. All Rights Reserved.