Writing as Therapy

Isaac Asimov

Before you ask, “Isn’t this supposed to be an art blog”, it’s already been established in my last post that writing can be considered an art form.

And to be honest, writing on this blog has been therapy for me. Not the kind involving a couch, a clipboard, and someone nodding thoughtfully while charging by the hour. (Though I am not opposed to professionals. I simply discovered that the blank page is both cheaper and less inclined to interrupt.)

To be sure, I’ve been dabbling at writing for a long time now; starting mostly way back in high school when I began writing poetry in an attempt to assuage some of my teenage angst. As my reading matured, so did my ambitions. I began with the fantastical worlds of Edgar Rice Burroughs and his Martian adventures, then moved on to the colder intellectual architectures of Isaac Asimov’s Foundation series.  From there it was a short step to the expansive speculation of Arthur C. Clarke, and finally to the dense, philosophical terrain of Frank Herbert’s Dune.

At some point — as often happens — admiration turned into temptation.

Inspired by those worlds, and driven by my own creative restlessness, I decided to try my hand at constructing a universe of my own. The result was the Life-World chronicles, along with its protagonist, Benjamin F. Bishop — a character into whom I poured a generous portion of my questions, uncertainties, and unresolved tensions.

Benjamin Bishop, protagonist of The Substance of Things Hoped For and Evidence of Things Unseen.

I will be the first to admit that attempting to create a coherent fictional universe is a humbling exercise. It reveals very quickly how much discipline imagination actually requires. But that struggle itself proved therapeutic. World-building, it turns out, is an excellent way to impose order on internal chaos — even if the order is provisional and the chaos stubborn.

When I wrote The Art of Death, I was not merely analyzing symbolism or surveying historical motifs. I was grappling with the loss of my mother, the death of my beloved boxer Duke, and the broader uncertainty that seems to arrive uninvited in middle age.

My boxer, Duke.

When I wrote Art in the Pious and Art in the Profane, I was not simply contrasting sacred and carnal imagery. I was examining the uncomfortable fact that both impulses reside — quite comfortably — in the same individual.

In that sense, these posts have been less like essays and more like structured conversations with myself, conducted in public, but with the benefit of revision.

Journaling has long been held up as a therapeutic tool, and while I won't go into detail about different journaling methods here, there are numerous articles online detailing how to journal effectively.

This blog, my poetry, and my book have all served to help me to deal with the vicissitudes of life in our post-modern society. In the end, I suppose this blog has become something of an accidental confessional—only with better grammar and fewer awkward silences. I didn’t set out to use writing as therapy; I simply sat down, started typing, and discovered that somewhere between the commas and parenthetical asides, things began to make sense. Or at least hurt a little less. Which, frankly, is progress.

There’s something disarming about the written word. It doesn’t rush you. It doesn’t nod sympathetically while glancing at the clock. It just sits there—patient, indifferent, and quietly demanding honesty. And if that honesty occasionally shows up wearing humor as a defense mechanism, well… I’ve found laughter pairs nicely with introspection. Like a spoonful of sugar helping the existential dread go down.

So yes, this is still an art blog. Writing is art. Reflection is art. Surviving the chaos of modern life with a pen in one hand and a sense of humor in the other may be the most practical art form I practice these days. If nothing else, it’s cheaper than therapy—and unlike my dog, the blank page never judges me. So... Write on, my friends.