So far, my writing course has been a great instructor, in and of itself. I feel committed, with intense trepidation, a marriage between frustration and possibility. I am well aware that no one has ever had an incredible and passionate career without risk, fear, highs, lows, and wild elation; both sides can sometimes be equally unnerving to those well-versed in containment, especially in terms of vociferous self-celebration. Oh, logic head, why must you tell me the foolish things you do?
Risk does not look the same for everyone and every risk possible that exists on this earth does not need to be taken by every single person.
The question I keep having to ask myself is what is of value to me? What is of such great importance that it needs to be faced sooner rather than later? The answer keeps coming back, time and time again to my own voice. The one that will not let me stop wanting this writing vocation even after neglect and purposeful abandonment. This beautiful and terrible thing, this merciless dream to create. To express. To tell my stories, to dance them, sing them. To scream them at the top of my lungs, and whisper them under my breath at the end of the day. Curses!
I have not given due respect to this necessity, this lifeblood, to the precious nature of all of the things that bring me joy and fill me with awe. This is a power that has intensity of all potentials together and this makes it whole and broken. As has been said, nothing is so whole as a broken heart. I would have no story to tell if I had not been torn apart again and again and again.
I am that tattoo on my ankle. I will grow from dark places sometimes despite myself. I will produce lush green fronds under the forest’s canopy.
Most wonderfully, even on a wretched writing evening, mired in mediocre scribblings, I will be forced out of my edit mind and myopic narcissism into an exercise where there is no reason to second guess, but just be silly and have fun. Sometimes that is precisely the way to end an arduous 2 hours of stiff_awkward_ pen_ jolting_ without_ rhythm_ across_ the_ page________.
After much intense and serious digging through immovable mud, we were invited to lighten up..well, told to, and that comes easily if you’re willing to let your head fly into the yonder old timey trick of word association….