Wrapping my head around the heart of the matter
I've sat down to write here I can't tell you how many times in the last 3 weeks. I want to write. I want the catharsis..I want so badly to put words on paper. It's even worse knowing the words are there. They're in my head, in my heart.
They won't come out of my hands.
To be reasonable, I know I've been a little more A.D.D. lately. I open a post window, or a document, or a journal, and then the WonderDog squeaks at me. Or a bird flits past the window. Or my stomach grumbles. Most recently, the package of pre-fab chicken pot stickers in my fridge actually spoke my name. I heard them loud and clear. They said "Eat me..you know you want to. Eat me RIGHT NOW."
It turns out they were right. I just took them out of the pan.
However...I still don't find myself writing the things I want to write about. I'm writing about pot stickers, for cripes sake. I've figured it out, I think. I'm scared. And that's categorically ridiculous, for me.
I enjoy writing. I'm confident in my abilities. I firmly believe in an adage that R gave me years ago--when you have something to say, you don't have to get it right the first time, but you do have to start somewhere. I know I don't have to get it right here the first time, or the tenth time--that's what that beautiful "edit posts" link is about...I can edit it even after I've published it a dozen times.
I think I'm scared of what I'll discover. And that's wrong to me, too. I've been very good the last several years about being real with myself. Very good. (Again, thank you R.) However, I think I'm scared right now that I'll feel something. And I don't really want to this month. I've got too much going on. Is that strange?
They won't come out of my hands.
To be reasonable, I know I've been a little more A.D.D. lately. I open a post window, or a document, or a journal, and then the WonderDog squeaks at me. Or a bird flits past the window. Or my stomach grumbles. Most recently, the package of pre-fab chicken pot stickers in my fridge actually spoke my name. I heard them loud and clear. They said "Eat me..you know you want to. Eat me RIGHT NOW."
It turns out they were right. I just took them out of the pan.
However...I still don't find myself writing the things I want to write about. I'm writing about pot stickers, for cripes sake. I've figured it out, I think. I'm scared. And that's categorically ridiculous, for me.
I enjoy writing. I'm confident in my abilities. I firmly believe in an adage that R gave me years ago--when you have something to say, you don't have to get it right the first time, but you do have to start somewhere. I know I don't have to get it right here the first time, or the tenth time--that's what that beautiful "edit posts" link is about...I can edit it even after I've published it a dozen times.
I think I'm scared of what I'll discover. And that's wrong to me, too. I've been very good the last several years about being real with myself. Very good. (Again, thank you R.) However, I think I'm scared right now that I'll feel something. And I don't really want to this month. I've got too much going on. Is that strange?
Feb 19, 2008, 2:33:00 PM
In my book ... you, and it, and everything you wrote in this post .. are completely NORMAL - not strange at all (for a writer, lol).
IMHO, people who write to gain, maintain, foster, nurture, experience, revel in, or discover "sanity" (which is of course my definition of a "writer") are all similarly neurotic (each of us thinking we are the MOST neurotic of the bunch, of course). And sometimes the thing that drives us over the edge the most is the sensation that we SHOULD be writing something, and yet, for whatever reason - aren't.
I think this begs the question .. do we write because we're like this, or are we like this because we write?
Either way, I say: Don't worry! You'll write what you write, when you write, and you'll do it when you're REALLY ready (not when you think you SHOULD be ready).