Itch

Sehnsucht. “Akin to joy, sehnsucht was a wistful longing. A yearning like the itch of the soul." (Adelaide Piper, Beth Webb Hart)

This is why I read.

A dear friend (who is fairly new to the tumultuous world of creative writing) was experiencing what most call “writer’s block”. Nothing was being produced. The blank page stares at you, glowing, taunting, devouring whatever it is you write there… leaving you back at square one. I felt sorry for him and told him to go read.

It just so happens that writing is a lot like the rest of this life. Sometimes your resources get depleted. Your reservoir is emptied. And the only way to fix this problem – to tear down this inhibiting wall or refill the creative cistern – is to consume and absorb words that are not your own.

So he did.

And so did I.

By doing so (for once, taking my own advice) I stumbled upon a book based in the low country. A well-written book that, in the very last paragraph, managed to fill my reservoir to the brim.

Because I have an itch of the soul. I said this out loud while eating dinner at a local pub the other night and another close friend smiled playfully and asked if it was “the kind of itch you can’t reach?”

I laughed ruefully and said, as a matter of fact it was.

This, perhaps, is not such a bad thing.

It is this itch that drives us to action. It is an itch that keeps us up at night, staring at the clock.

It is an itch that requires you to change. To be courageous and bold. It is an itch that will humble you, reminding you that you have not done it all, nor will you ever. An itch that ignites a desire to be greater than you are. And as the Germans believe, it is a wistful longing “more desirable than any other satisfaction”.

The kind of itch a snake must feel before shedding its too-tight skin.

Or the itch that drives the butterfly from its cocoon.

An itch that pushes a chick out of its shell.