As I ride my bike past a meadow wrapped in mist, the idea comes to me. A new chapter to immerse myself in. Like a dry piece of cake dipped into a chocolate fountain, I suddenly feel new and flavorful again. It’s the duality of experiencing many emotions. Endless inspiration, but also endless pondering, overthinking, and dissecting. The pain is sharp, but my skin easily gives in. It’s like wading in a pool of lava. I’ve developed techniques to avoid drowning or burning myself in it.
The frustration sometimes lies more in the possibilities and in my own limitations. Or better said, the way I allow myself to be limited. Wanting to write endlessly but fearing that my spelling and grammar are incorrect. Making music but being too critical about what’s good enough to share. We are our own worst enemies in that regard. We limit ourselves with a load of excuses not to do it. In the end, there’s always that drastic voice in my head repeating the same sentence: Time waits for no one. And then I push it out anyway. Whether anyone reads or listens to it doesn’t matter. Not with the small things.
The bigger projects do matter. Projects where I’ve had success, but also times when I completely missed the mark. My first solo exhibition, which I was so proud of. My short film, which was a complete flop. Growth is also acknowledging what didn’t work. Making a film so cryptic that no one understands it only works within certain circles. And those are no longer my circles. My hope now lies in the short story I’ve written. Something new and intensely personal. I’m curious to see what people will think of it. But with topics like drug use, sex, and obsession, it doesn’t seem like the right story for my parents.
The story is finished, so my mind drifts to the next. About the night, fatigue, and the mystery in the dark. The title ‘Nocturnal Stories’ forms in my head. I stop cycling and write it in my notes, which are bursting with stories and things I need to remember. From opinions about books to stray shopping lists. In the days that follow, images and sounds take shape. New experiments to share. And before I know it, the first little boat is ready in the harbor. Time to sail on the internet, with all the consequences that come with it.
If I wanted to, I could do much more with this. But exposure comes with criticism, and that’s scary. But without criticism, I can’t grow either. And titles need to be earned. Do I already consider myself a writer? Do I write enough to say that I write? ‘You write, so you’re a writer,’ you would say. What lovely simplicity. There are so many stories I haven’t put on paper yet. Or in my phone notes. So I keep writing and creating.
If I don’t do this, my emotions will express themselves in another way. And in this way, they seem just a bit more beautiful. I have to make and tell things because otherwise, I’m not happy.
Martijn Winkel 