Friday, November 8, 2013

Writing about writing

I have always been a writer. I have stories starring unicorns and dragons from grade school. I have an endless amount of angst filled poetry that tells the tales of my teenage years. I have spiral notebooks scribbled cover to cover with all of the doubt and self discovery that has been my adulthood. I never did switch to typing; I need to hold the pen. 


           I write when I am happy, when I am pissed off, when I am confused, and most especially when I am sad. Sometimes I write as a means to understand my own mind. Putting it all on paper in a much more organized fashion than the jumbled mess in my head serves to make the confusion less confusing. Sometimes I write as a way to purge. Get the ugliness out by writing it down, and then put it away, physically and metaphorically. Sometimes, especially when its poetry that flows out, I am writing through a situation. I am steeling myself up to make it to the other side of the bullshit. Reminding myself that there is an other side of the bullshit, no matter how far away it seems. Sometimes I write simply to go through the motion. Putting pen to paper calms me, even when the words aren’t important. Sometimes I write for the specific purpose of journaling events, not losing that moment, making sure it becomes a memory.

               I’ve been told that I should publish my poetry, told that I am good enough to write and get paid for it, told to pursue a career in writing. I haven’t, and I won’t. Very few people see my poetry, and I will likely keep it that way. Its mine. Its intensely private. Maybe one day that will change, but not today. And as far as writing for money – I don’t think I could. I don’t posses the steadfastness, organization and important things to say that are necessary to write any kind of a book. I’m not at that level of ability. Mostly though, I don’t think I could because I cannot write on demand. My writing commands me, not the other way around. 

               So I started a blog. And a facebook page. We have lots of fun on the page, even though (or perhaps because) there are so very few of us. I don’t do anything to promote the page, and no one in my real life is on it. No one in my real life knows that it exists. I wrote an intro for the blog. Then I wrote a post about Mondays. Then I wrote about my opinion on the sluttiness of Halloween. Then I ripped my guts out and slapped them onto the internets for all to see for Mental Health Awareness Week (and then the awesome Debie Hive shared that one on her blog for me! Eeeeeee!!). And then… Nothing.

               I start a blog to have a place to write, a place to share what I write. Before the blog, I write constantly. After the blog… fuck. I’m out of words. So, that’s what this post is. I’m hoping to pop the lid off of whatever has my words all bottled up. Here’s hoping it works!

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