having trouble writing?
"let it go," he says.
"write it all down," he says.
"all that you've been blogging should be turned into a book," he says.
...
yeah, well. i've never been very good about listening to my betters. it's not that i intend to be disrespectful or devalue the wisdom of experience. simply put, the core of my advice-deafness is my stubborn desire to learn on my terms. win or stumble on my own. fly or trip on my own. ascend or collapse on my own. shamelessly wield weak mixed metaphors on my own. & destroy parallelism purposefully. alliteratively.
but back to the counsel at hand. does he really want me to put it all on paper? is a full record really such a good idea? as i am fully intimate with my internal maёlstrom, i cringe at the thought of fully releasing myself to the masses.
[*waits for the irony to sink in*]
truth be told, i've been avoiding my fiction (more specifically, my longest narrative to date) for well over a year and a half because its continuation would have taken all that i had left. as october 2011 came upon me, so did chronic exhaustion, & i hadn't the energy to sustain both my writing & my physical well-being. it was too much; my pro- & antagonists cut too close to my own identity, & remaining true to the project was increasingly taxing. my health was suffering for a variety of reasons, & thus, with resolution, i bound all of my characters & threw them into a storage locker that i tried to forget. i was going to save myself before saving them. wise choice. right?
& my non-fiction? fuck that noise. my own life was my sole interest. i was desperately trying to set it right after so many wrongs (largely self-inflicted), & damned if i was going to share that train wreck. sure, i've posted highlights & lowlights, but i've been careful to cull the most meaningful details. revelation: i've been hiding it, the truth within my truths, & there's nothing anyone can do about it.
there's a problem with hiding, however: no matter how well one thinks she's camouflaged herself, she will always be found. & then, chaos.
i've been clinging to the illusion that i can call myself a writer while being selective. if i kept my unmentionables as such, then---
***
BACK. sorry about that. my mind broke, & i couldn't think anymore, so i stopped to go for a run. then i needed preventative maintenance, so i had to take an ice bath asap. not that i was putting off writing. not at all. then it was off to the grocery store since there was no produce left in the house, & i do go a little mental when i don't have my apples & cherry tomatoes. then dinner (of course). then toby needed his walk right away. seriously, i wasn't avoiding the task at hand. i swear. didn't you see the storm clouds looming over the lebanon valley? didn't you? you didn't? you're blind. whatever...
i suppose i should pick up with the hiding & the finding & the chaos. let me cut to it. my predominating thought: if i transgressed by being transparent & released myself in my writing, i would pay for it. dearly. diving headfirst into a mind such as mine doesn't come without cost. best to sit on the deck. don't want to drown, after all. but out of the water, i'm miserable, & i know it. torn & needing advice, i turned to He Who Calls Me Out.
HWCMO is far too skilled at what he does. he has no truck with excuses, & kind though his phrasing may be, he refuses to let me continue trying to fool myself. i've spent over thirty years constructing this elaborate crystalline bubble, & he bursts it in seconds. i've tried & tried to hide myself away, & here someone's been able to see me in spite of my every effort. the ugliness, the scars, the pain, the rage, the roiling soul--it's been visible the whole time, a horrifying realization. & this confidant doesn't think he should be the only one to see it; he actually wants me to share this with everyone else. i'm forced to return to the question--does he understand the enormity of what he suggests? if i go along with it, i'll be tossing brokenness into full view, reopening old wounds that run deep, wounds that threaten to bleed me out. & for what?
***
i thought i was going to be posting about my foolishness & subsequent repentance. in the course of a few paragraphs, i would explain what a stubborn ass i had been but then reveal how i'd come to see the value in letting go, in writing it all down. i have the words of one who won't admit to his own wisdom, & those words have been proven, haven't they? so of course, i should listen. i should just let it out. i should just write me.
but, as it turns out, i don't think i can. not yet.
sorry.
"let it go," he says.
"write it all down," he says.
"all that you've been blogging should be turned into a book," he says.
...
 |
| are you kidding me? |
but back to the counsel at hand. does he really want me to put it all on paper? is a full record really such a good idea? as i am fully intimate with my internal maёlstrom, i cringe at the thought of fully releasing myself to the masses.
[*waits for the irony to sink in*]
truth be told, i've been avoiding my fiction (more specifically, my longest narrative to date) for well over a year and a half because its continuation would have taken all that i had left. as october 2011 came upon me, so did chronic exhaustion, & i hadn't the energy to sustain both my writing & my physical well-being. it was too much; my pro- & antagonists cut too close to my own identity, & remaining true to the project was increasingly taxing. my health was suffering for a variety of reasons, & thus, with resolution, i bound all of my characters & threw them into a storage locker that i tried to forget. i was going to save myself before saving them. wise choice. right?
& my non-fiction? fuck that noise. my own life was my sole interest. i was desperately trying to set it right after so many wrongs (largely self-inflicted), & damned if i was going to share that train wreck. sure, i've posted highlights & lowlights, but i've been careful to cull the most meaningful details. revelation: i've been hiding it, the truth within my truths, & there's nothing anyone can do about it.
there's a problem with hiding, however: no matter how well one thinks she's camouflaged herself, she will always be found. & then, chaos.
i've been clinging to the illusion that i can call myself a writer while being selective. if i kept my unmentionables as such, then---
***
BACK. sorry about that. my mind broke, & i couldn't think anymore, so i stopped to go for a run. then i needed preventative maintenance, so i had to take an ice bath asap. not that i was putting off writing. not at all. then it was off to the grocery store since there was no produce left in the house, & i do go a little mental when i don't have my apples & cherry tomatoes. then dinner (of course). then toby needed his walk right away. seriously, i wasn't avoiding the task at hand. i swear. didn't you see the storm clouds looming over the lebanon valley? didn't you? you didn't? you're blind. whatever...
i suppose i should pick up with the hiding & the finding & the chaos. let me cut to it. my predominating thought: if i transgressed by being transparent & released myself in my writing, i would pay for it. dearly. diving headfirst into a mind such as mine doesn't come without cost. best to sit on the deck. don't want to drown, after all. but out of the water, i'm miserable, & i know it. torn & needing advice, i turned to He Who Calls Me Out.
HWCMO is far too skilled at what he does. he has no truck with excuses, & kind though his phrasing may be, he refuses to let me continue trying to fool myself. i've spent over thirty years constructing this elaborate crystalline bubble, & he bursts it in seconds. i've tried & tried to hide myself away, & here someone's been able to see me in spite of my every effort. the ugliness, the scars, the pain, the rage, the roiling soul--it's been visible the whole time, a horrifying realization. & this confidant doesn't think he should be the only one to see it; he actually wants me to share this with everyone else. i'm forced to return to the question--does he understand the enormity of what he suggests? if i go along with it, i'll be tossing brokenness into full view, reopening old wounds that run deep, wounds that threaten to bleed me out. & for what?
***
i thought i was going to be posting about my foolishness & subsequent repentance. in the course of a few paragraphs, i would explain what a stubborn ass i had been but then reveal how i'd come to see the value in letting go, in writing it all down. i have the words of one who won't admit to his own wisdom, & those words have been proven, haven't they? so of course, i should listen. i should just let it out. i should just write me.
but, as it turns out, i don't think i can. not yet.
sorry.
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