I used to write–a lot. Perhaps it was simply a derivative of the fact that I loved to read. Roald Dahl was always a childhood favorite. He wrote about the witching hour, those late, quiet hours of the night, when giants bounded up to little girls’ windows and blew dreams through the air with trumpets. Those were the hours I loved to write. In middle school, I pasted my walls with blank paper so that I could wake up in the middle of the night and jot down my story ideas without having to scramble for paper. In high school, I developed bags under my eyes from nights stayed up writing and a rather antisocial disposition–I could count the number of people I considered my friends on one hand. Ever the tortured artist, I carried loose leaves of my novels with me wherever I went, and would scribble new lines whenever I had a moment’s pause. I don’t know what happened, when the switch turned off. I don’t write anymore–I don’t even think about writing. My grammar has deteriorated. My spelling has become deplorable (sp?). When I stay up, it’s not to write, but to chat with my boyfriend, or stalk some peripheral character in my life on Facebook. Tonight, I started reading a short story I’d started about half a year ago. It’s not half bad. It’s really not. I don’t know when I stopped doing the one thing I loved above all else, but I want to start writing again. I wasn’t happier as a writer (God knows I embraced the tortured bohemian role to an unhealthy, suicidal extent), but my life, at the very least, had purpose. It’s not this dull, interminable grayness I’ve felt every day for two years, like I’ve lost my glasses and can only grope through images I half understand. The witching hour always brings about internal dialogues like these. It’s the dark that presses against you, the silence that softly hums with the electronics left on in the background. It’s so peaceful, and I imagine some very big, very friendly giant is galloping through the land, blowing the triumphant tune of dreams through the air.
The Witching Hour