No, that’s not exactly true. I write. I write with the fury of a marathon runner drinking water. I write with the desperation of a child chasing the ice-cream truck. I write with a purpose, well most of the time. But I write. I hole myself up and write.
My bed has the groove of my writing spot. My eyes know every sunset color of the window I rest against. I know every bird that lands in the tree outside that window. My voice has begun mimicking their two-toned call. It’s metered many a poem. It’s interrupted character conversations.
No, the problem isn’t in writing. The problem is I’m never satisfied with my writing. I have all these poems that I pile up to revise and revise and revise. Yet I leave them there like tomorrows. I let them pile up with plans and goals, knowing I’ll sleep or watch Netflix instead.
I’ve been trying to read them. I’ve been trying to show them to others, if only to stop apologizing for slip ups or missing commas. I’m trying to elicit more productive behavior and keep falling flat.
This would be fine, because I have a full-time job as well as other hobbies, but writing is such an integral part of my day that I feel like a lie when people don’t know that side of me. They don’t hear the rhyme patterns in my head. They don’t see my many faceted flaws flustering even my characters. They only see my intention to write, not my writing. That’s like my intention to hang out and never hanging out. Or my intention to listen while not making the time.
How can I be satisfied? How can I be myself?
Maybe it’s by being vulnerable. Though, I have a loud face—that’s what my old boss called it. I can’t tell a lie. I just can’t. I have Jessica Day eyes that are too open they can’t stay closed to keep secrets hidden. So often I feel super vulnerable. I don’t smile when I’m not happy. I stopped pretending. You can see in my eyes when I’m happy, when I’m sad, when I’m hurt, and when I’m absent. I tend to go absent a lot.
So maybe it’s not that I need to be vulnerable, but that I need to be intentional. Vulnerability from writing is usually elicited by the reader’s interpretation anyways.
As I say constantly, writing is hard.
Cheers.