Cannot stop returning to this reflection on the power of writing from S.D. Wickett

“Of late, and by of late I refer to my mid-twenties and beyond - I'm twenty-seven now - I have become afflicted by a most dire sickness. Somewhere between the head and the heart, there come bouts where my body begins to scream. It begins with a starting pistol. In my case - for I have learned from the tales of others, each begins differently - it is a slight thump in the chest, a single irregular beat of the heart. It sends a slick pulse up and down, from my chest to my feet and my chest to my brain. And then I become very aware of the feet that carry me, and they wobble and tremor, tripped up by shadows. Then a fog descends, and all becomes surreal. This is the orchestra tuning up. And then, with a flurry so violent, that I am left with no choice but to believe, whole-heartedly, that I am dying or already dead. The concerto begins. My beating heart is the soloist, accompanied by sweating palms and wheezing lungs and anaemic limbs. Then, my attention goes to legacy, or a lack thereof; the shrugs and polite well-wishing of long-lost friends, the regret of the recently-lost, and the suppressed anguish of the dearest. And then I lose all control, my vision blurs and all vestiges of strength leave. I'm off-balance and dizzy, on the floor in a heap and gasping for air, heart racing. And then I write, and all is well again. I believe this to be the writer's bug. Beckett knew the same, Munch and Kafka too. It drove Waugh to madness, Orwell to the grave, and myself to beg for release. But I know that if it did, then what little magic I can conjure would leave me too. Which, at times, begs the question; is the choice really mine?”