There is another kind of ‘not writing’ — not the space between where there is this sense of otherness writing through you. There is a ‘not writing’ where the words should have been, the pen should have been, you should have been but you were not. You were not and the trauma was.
And where the trauma lived my novel inspired by a temple dream and an old Buddhist monk did not. Where would this novel had taken me? Maybe I would have finished or as a new writer lacking the skill not finished. Maybe having learned what I needed to learn I simply would have moved on to other stories. No harm in that. And if I had moved on what would those stories have been? Having lost agency over my own body I also lost agency over everything I did or did not do. It wasn’t a matter of getting over it — the volition was severed. There was an automatic recalibration of trajectory. Physical. Final. Trauma does this — it changes your brain and your plans.
And so the temple dream and the old Buddhist continued without me in a creaky wooden cart slowly rolling across my consciousness and out of sight.
Interesting exploration. Seems very... not easy.