I promise I’m not totally narcissistic. The following is an interview of me by me. I ask the questions, I answer the questions. I wrote this so my readers could get to know me a little better. This blog is my play, my puppets, my stories. I would like you to see the hand behind the curtain.
Interview With Myself
“Why do you write?”
For several reasons. First and foremost because there is something burning inside me. I have this passion that overwhelms me to write, to say something, to express myself. Sometimes I can’t stop, like today. I don’t even know why I’m writing in the middle of the night tonight. I’ve been writing all day. It’s a sickness, a beautiful illness. I don’t want to get better.
Some people say it is a calling. A talent. A gift. I don’t know. I know it’s hard work. It’s the hardest thing I’ve ever done in my life. Why do I put myself through it? I have to. I must.
Secondly. I write because I can. If I could sing, I love music as much as words, I would be a singer. Unfortunately, even with the fabulous acoustics in my shower, I’m no Adele. I have the ability to do this, and I’m not even sure what I’m doing exactly. I’m putting a bunch of symbols together to create meaning. I don’t use big words. I don’t know, I just don’t. I love them, those words, all of them. I’m a logophile, a lover of words.
I’m sometimes insecure about my writing. Some of my best work I have feared is no good. Sometimes I have no way of judging how good or bad any given piece of writing is. Sometimes I know it’s great, and I’m so proud of it. I’m experimenting right now and it’s going well, I don’t want anything to thwart my creative process. I know when I actually start to get published outside of my own blog, there will be editors and more editors. For now, I’m letting myself be me. They will try to change me.
Yes, I need approval. Maybe I write because I need attention. I like to be the life of the party, I do. This work is my party, and I’ll cry if I want to.
Honestly, I don’t like the sound of English that much. I want t,o learn Hindi. It is so beautiful sounding, the poetry, the music, the cadence of the phonetic words. There is a song in that language.
I’m getting bored with English, but it is all I know and it happens to be the universal language now of the world. Whether that’s good, bad or ugly is neither here nor there. English has power in this world, and if I want to say something. I should probably say it in English.
I also write because it’s like this food for my soul, I’m full when I write. Sometimes I feel empty when I don’t write. I don’t feel whole or real when I’m not writing.
It makes me happy.
And I almost forgot. I have something to say. About everything.
“Why do you stop writing so often?”
It is exhausting. It’s one-thirty in the morning, and I woke up at five this morning. I can’t sleep because I have this energy about me. It’s a high. I think I know why Michael Jackson could not sleep. I’m not suggesting I’m the Michael Jackson of writing.
It is heart-wrenching. It hurts, it feels good, it’s a rollercoaster ride. It’s literally crazy. You have to be crazy to really write. You cannot be normal. I love normal people, I envy them their consistency and security and sensibility. If I want to really write, sometimes that all goes out the window.
Sometimes when I don’t write I am not alive, really. I’m sleep walking or something. I’m a robot, I’m just doing, just existing, not understanding the meaning of why.
I stop in order to breathe. Then I get caught up in the world and forget and get on the treadmill of life, and keep running and getting nowhere. I forget who I am or why I’m alive.
I’m trying to get better at forcing myself to write no matter what.
“What is it like to be crazy or in other words have Bipolar Disorder?”
It is ecstatic and horrific, sometimes it is other worldly. Sometimes it is mean, maybe even evil if there is such a thing. What does ecstasy feel like? It feels like never ending bliss, like freedom, like happiness. When things are bad, it feels like you want to die. You might as well be dead but you are in so much pain. The pain, you can feel it mostly in your heart.
Sometimes you think you have entered another world. Maybe it’s heaven, maybe it’s hell, maybe it’s another dimension or realm. Trust me they exist, these places.
I’m a horrible human being when I’m truly manic. I’ve lost friends, insulted family members, made people cry, made people yell. I have never been violent. I’m not sure why not. There is something inherently non-nina about physical violence. I can’t stand it, I can’t do it.
Depressive states are more stable. I have been sad and slept a lot. But I never attempted suicide or really focused on that. I will thank god for that one.
“You wrote a post about how you thought god had spoken to you. Do you think that was a psychotic or manic episode? Why or why not?”
I can’t actually “prove” anything. I felt like an entity we call god was speaking to me, through me, with me, in me. The voice told me to love myself…usually psychotic voices are negative. Yes, I felt high, I felt a bliss, a love towards all. This is similar to mania. However, mania is interrupted by crying spells, anger, and agitation. I did not have any of those negative experiences.
God speaks to everyone by the way. Usually through feeling or experience. Words are the last resort. Here is my post about that if you missed it: Dear nina…it’s me god.
“How can you put your personal life and all of it’s grimy, shady, and dirty little details on the INTERNET! Don’t you have the need for privacy? Don’t you have any respect for yourself?”
The nature of my job is revealing myself. I don’t just write fiction, I write personal narratives. Stories, some are true, some are fiction. Sometimes I write poetry. Writers by nature expose themselves. The Internet is just another forum to get the words out there. You wouldn’t judge them so harshly if they were in a book or magazine. It’s time to respect that Internet for some of its contents.
Also, regarding my respect for myself: I have a deep respect for my inner world and outer experiences. As surprising as it may sound there is much I don’t reveal, it only seems as though I’m revealing my secrets. I have secrets just like anyone else that I won’t even write in a diary because I know people will read it when I die. It’s interesting because some of my best stories cannot be put on the page, they play in my heart.
“You have given details of other people in your life. Do you feel like you have violated their privacy?”
Maybe. It’s hard being around a writer or a comedian. You can very easily become material. That must be very difficult for my family and friends. I’m sorry. It is one of the casualties of my profession. I expose myself and others. I will try to protect you the best I can. Again I’m sorry that I have to do this. I would not be doing this if I didn’t have to. I am possessed to write. And many stories about people I love I do not write about because that would not be appropriate. However, if I write about you, I will hide your identity the best I can and please take in a flattering way. I love your stories as much as my own.
“How do you get ideas for what to write about?”
I think a lot. I think about past experiences. I peruse the Internet for stories that are happening right now. I read books. I listen to music. I meditate. I meditate. I meditate.
Meditation is my muse.