Just wondering, how many of you have unfinished blog posts out there? I start it with gusto then when it’s time to hit the post button, I can’t do it. Me? I’m currently on number eight. They’re sitting unfinished and some even now irrelevant in content. Yet I don’t have the heart to delete it forever. For example: I started a post called “Why I never Believed in Santa Clause”; in January that seems a bit… I don’t know.. not interesting? Would anyone even be interested in reading something like that in January or any other time of the year besides Christmas? Feel free to comment below either way. You won’t hurt my feelings.
The content about my story; I haven’t had the nerve yet to do a WIP even though all the other WIPers are very open and smart and thoughtful. Anxiety much? Yeah that’s me. This post almost became archived, unfinished number nine. Anyone with any advice at all on how they overcame or are coping with the anxiety surrounding sharing their writing, it would be greatly appreciated. Please share, liberally. Thanks in advance.
“I convinced myself winning meant getting out. But in what world do you get to leave the ring and declare victory? This is where I belong. In the fight. It’s who I am.”-Veronica Mars
Timely words that resonate so completely for me at this time in my life. The source is unexpected, a fictional woman who found herself in the death of her best friend. The veil of innocence was ripped from her life when she dared to hold accountable those that were responsible for their wrong doings. The person is made up but the sentiment is very, very real.
That’s right, I’m here to stay. No one tells me to get out or to leave, I’m fighting and I intend to win.
Dear Ian, Jason, Linda and Angel,
I know I’ve left you in some pretty precarious places and you’ve probably checked your watches about a hundred times by now waiting for me to help you continue. Don’t worry, I’ll be with you shortly as I’m think up new tortures and FML moments to subject you to in the morning. I assume you’ve bathed without me? I hope so. If not, I’ll be sure to get that in there the next time I’m with you, it’s been a few days and I’m sure it’s needed. Have you eaten? I know only one of you have that I can account take account of; I’ll try to remember to sneak in a few more meals. Only if it doesn’t detract from the pace of the story, if it does then you’ll just have to go hungry. Sorry.
I appreciate your patience with me as I continue to screw your lives beyond hope and have things happen to you that would not be socially acceptable and criminal on my plane of existence. But not to worry, you’re strong and you’ll kind of get though these things. Some of you anyways.
A few mornings ago, as I backed out of the driveway on my way to work, the sky was overcast, frost still on my windows, as I didn’t let the car warm up completely; I thought, there’s a blank page somewhere begging me to fill it with everything my mind oozes and anything I can scrape off the walls of my psyche. Before the front bumper of my car crossed the line into traffic, I paused there for a moment watching cars go by and thinking about what it meant to be a writer. Being a writer doesn’t always mean you will have legions of readers hanging on your every expressed word and getting paid handsomely to do so; would be nice. It means continuing to write when you don’t. I don’t have any published works, yet. I haven’t “completed” a project, yet.
What I do have is the audacity to keep sit at my computer and I pouring my thoughts out, letting them run freely when they do (awesomeness personified) or dribble out (Ugh) like they also do at some inopportune times. It means looking at the world around you and evaluating what you see and feel, being able to verbalize the existence that you perceived in a way that others will find thoughtful. It means looking at the world and feeling the air on your skin and knowing that twenty miles away the same air is touching a loved one and that you are connected and writing it down. It means taking in the words of the world, a stop sign, an antique shop post, an indie novel that a friend of a friend of a friends best friend wrote. It means reading a best seller and it means reading a flop all the way to the end and everything else you can get your hands on. It means no boundaries whether they be physical, imaginary or intellectual. (except plagiarism of course)
Feeling and giving in to that pull to create and tell stories or to report the world as you see it, that’s a writer.
All of this, mind you, is what I think a writer is and all that I want to have in me and be. The most wonderful part of what a writer is, is that if you share some of these traits you don’t say who isn’t a writer. No judgements, just writing.
“We could never learn to be brave and patient if there were only joy in the world.” -Helen Keller
This brilliant soul also said that “at first I only knew darkness and stillness that my life was without past or future”. Then something wonderful happened; someone gave her a gift, the gift of words spoken and they literally reverberated through her very soul; awakening in her an insatiable zest for learning and creating that’s still very potent. Her life and success is an inspiration and an example, a recipe if you will, of how to make the most out of this cruel and beautiful life with the tools you’ve been given.
Staring at my blank page I look at it and imagine some undiscovered musical score keeping time with an impatient cursor, rushing me and begging me to fill it, to give it body. I want to give the world the humble gift of my words even if no one else reads them they’re now a part of the universe. I wish to place my heart on paper with every crack and blemish smashed burnished and unmistakable. For every word I didn’t say at the moments when they could have been voiced, there will be a requiem taking with them the rejection, denial and hurt; so that both they and I can have peace.