Why bother writing if you’re not writing something? It’s a fair question.
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Inhale. Exhale. Thought thought thought thought thought. Leaves fluttering. Eyes heavy. Inhale. Exhale. Car warm. Drowsy. Thought thought thought thought. Inhale. Exhale. Temptation to check timer. Inhale. Exhale. And then, finally, the chime. Aaaaaaaah. I did it.
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We all have our stories about when we stopped. Stopped playing. Stopped creating. Stopped doing something that brought us joy because it wasn't practical or lucrative or productive.
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Hating on yourself is not cool. It doesn't exactly open the creative floodgates. And "being good to yourself" is neither as easy as it sounds or as shallow as it may seem. In fact, I'd argue that its depths are vast, and when you dive down, you'll find wreckage and treasure alike. And isn't that where the writing lives?
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If I can get quieter inside, I'm much more likely be able to listen for some useful questions or simply start writing.
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The slightest fissure -- a hairline fracture in a massive piece of rock -- that is the place in a piece of writing where the whole story might break wide open.
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Meanwhile, it is so crowded here sometimes I cannot find entrance to my own house, my own quiet places, the ones where the writing lives alone.
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What I want, more than anything, is to feel connected to myself and to others. To find form for what lives in me and yearns for a worldly shape. Stories, for me, and yes, books, are one of those recognizable shapes — a way of literally holding, and offering to others, one’s lived experience — and also of letting it go.
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You are not required to learn form these experiences, but your world will be richer and your relationships stronger if you do. And there is no avoiding them, lest we live in a fragile, entitled state of needing everything to go our way.
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Binary thinking doesn’t serve us. In this (or any) context, an all or nothing, either/or approach is not useful. As humans, we’re inevitably going to bring many thoughts and feelings to any table. The question, I suppose, is in how we can regard these — especially when there is inner turmoil or conflict — with some gentleness.
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It’s not pretty to look at the parts of ourselves that exemplify the things we say we’re against — entitlement, white privilege, intellectual snobbery. But to not look at these, to choose to stay cloistered, sheltered, more “successful” in ways society recognizes and values, and what we may have been taught would be “safer,” is inexcusable for anyone who claims to care about justice and humanity.
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A deep breath. The light changing so subtly and gradually, it’s almost impossible to discern. But soon enough, it will be dark outside. We’ll sleep once more, than start all over again.
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Take some time soon to write about anger. Set a timer for 10 minutes and make a fast and furious list (see what I did there?) of associations you have with anger. You could simply start with “anger = …” and go from there, returning to this equation if you get stuck.
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Yet you, on an ordinary day, telling the truth about your life and being willing to get more and more honest and real? That is strong, my friends. And it’s just the beginning.
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But here’s the thing: If I am to move my writing more into a political sphere — a periphery I’ve circled and danced inside of for as long as I’ve been writing — I have an obligation to do so in a way that calls attention not to myself but to those who really have something at stake.
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it’s no wonder a big part of my work in this world is to say: Come on in. Have a seat. Let’s hang out together. Let’s write and draw and listen to music and laugh and tell stories.
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