“Think”, my mom says. “Just think”.
Don’t think about your feelings.
So here is what happens when I just think:
I often wonder if life imitates art. In my case, I believe that to be true.
When I was in high school, I read a book called “Self-Help stories by Lorrie Moore”. I love every story in the book, but one in particular still speaks to me. “How to Become a Writer”. The first line is “First, try to be something, anything else. A movie star/astronaut. A movie star/missionary. A movie star/kindergarten teacher. President of the World. Fail miserably. It is best if you fail at an early age – say fourteen. Early critical disillusionment is necessary so that at fifteen you can write long haiku sequences about thwarted desire”.
So I thought, got a degree in English Literature…and went into sales…probably because I couldn’t write a haiku to save my life.
Early disillusionment IS necessary. You don’t get awarded for trying. This applies not only to writing, but to life. Keep thinking.
I was never good at much, but I can write. I have great authors as examples and my mom to thank for that. (or I can just fail miserably over and over and over…).
But I keep thinking.
I have never really been great at creative writing. Blogging has helped me vent, but that isn’t truly writing (…fail miserably…thanks, Lorrie Moore).
So, I keep thinking.
From “How to Become a Writer”: “Later on in life, you will learn that writers are merely open, helpless texts with no real understanding of what they have written and therefore must half-believe anything and everything that is said of them”.
So I thought. And, I believe this to be true. I am an open, helpless text. I write and I write and I write and I understand some of that. I, however, do not care what is said of me. I write for my soul; I’m not sure I have anything of value to say, but I have to put the words on a page. It is my journey.
“Occasionally a date with a face blank as a sheet of paper asks you whether writers often become discouraged. Say that sometimes they do. Say it’s a lot like having polio”.
It truly is like having a disease. Like there is something inside that you’re just not sure how to fix, but you have to get it out. It’s not always eloquent, but it is an exorcism of sorts. Just. Put. Words. On. Paper.
Lately, I have been quite maudlin, but I am thinking and finding my true voice again.
Here is what I KNOW: I am simply a thread in this fabric of life and I will keep writing.