Getting there

Writing is selfish. I've read that in a few places. Lately it's popped up in my mind quite frequently. Writing is taking the time to pen down your thoughts and taking them seriously. Writing is thinking your sentiments are worth something. Writing is cathartic. Writing is power. Writing is making your indelible mark on history. Writing takes you away from the drum of the real world and asks you to isolate and zone in to no, not that, not that over there, but just yourself and how you feel. It's a removal.  

So why am I so self-conscious about writing? If it's for me, and it's just about me and my feelings, and I really down deep truly don't really care what anyone thinks about it, nor if anyone reads it for that matter -- what's stopping me from picking up my pen? Why do I distract myself -- clean the kitchen, pay the bills, fold the laundry, work out -- do ANYTHING but, -- BUT at the same time wake up at night with lines swirling through my head? With parts of poems spilling out?

Why do I keep it plugged up?

Fear. Stupid, selfish fear. It's silly, really. What if what I really have to say isn't all that much? What if it sucks? What if it goes nowhere? I've spent my life building up the idea that I want to write. I talk about it. I read voraciously. I live in the library. I talk to people about writing. I taught English. I went to school for journalism. When people ask what I want to do, I don't skip a beat: "I want to write a novel."

"And how's that novel going for you?"

You know the answer.

In order to ever get there I have to let go of the idea that these words are important. I have to let go of the idea that there is measurement waiting for them. I have to let go of the idea that I'm working on a PRODUCT. I just need to immerse myself in the PROCESS. Sit down. Turn on music. Shut the door. Let it out.

One line, five paragraphs, seven pages. One word. Jibberish. Brilliance. Poem, scribble, song. Doesn't matter. Just let the juices flow. Already I feel my muscles loosening. Already the brain synapses snapping on. Warmed up and jostled a bit and happy.

It's a question, too, of what matters. Deep in my heart I know what I want to do with my life is write something that will mean something to people. That will connect with them and make them feel touched. Maybe less alone. I want to translate everything I feel about people as I pass by them -- all the wonder and inquisitiveness and perplexity --into an ode to the world I live in. I am just fascinated by it and I want other people to be too. And I want them to know I notice them.

And I don't know why I feel this way, but I do. And the world probably wouldn't care, otherwise. But it's the only real pull I've ever felt in my life. I probably should stop ignoring it.