I sit here wanting to write you something, but having equal amounts of trouble coming up with something to write about. The ultimate writer’s dilemma, no? There are so many things to write about. They circle my head like those cartoon characters after they’ve run into something hard and with great force, rendered stupefied and unresponsive. That’s how I’ve been feeling for a long time, and those animated whirlwinds running circles around my head after repeatedly beating myself up for not writing, are ideas that could be molded into stories or essays or poems or lyrics. It reminds me of when I was in elementary school and I got to step into a rectangular box filled with flying money. However many dollars I caught in the box was how much the principal would give me in real money out of pocket, but no matter how hard I flailed my arms, groping for those papery green bills, I couldn’t manage to grasp a single one. I withdrew from the box empty-handed.
The other day I was emailing a friend, explaining that I needed to get back with my writing, really take hold of it and get my book written. Then I remembered how every time I say this, I may buckle down one night every three or four months in an attempt to take control of my writing, then float on carelessly through my life another three or four months with no writing. I’ll tell people I’ve started up again, I’ll send them work prematurely to let them know I’ve tackled the beast, only to be defeated by my own unrelenting demons a day or so later, and drop back off. I once read about an author who said to never tell people when you’re working on something. Actually, the author said to never tell people that you are a writer, and I kind of spun that into “never tell people when you’re writing,” because generally the people in my life know that I write. So, last night as I meandered in circles around my small room, I resolved not to talk about my writing with anyone. “I want to be able to pop up out of the blue one day and say, ‘So, yeah, I’ve finished my book,’ and the person I’m speaking to will be completely dumbfounded because they hadn’t realized I’d been writing so seriously again.”
But, then I got to thinking that writing should be about sharing. Of course, there are times when it’s too early and times when it’s appropriate. Plain and simple, writing needs feedback, writing needs perspective, and the only way to get that is by telling people, “Hey, I’m working on something again, and I’d really like to know what you think when I’m done.” This way, not only are you allowing someone to hold you accountable, you’re allowing yourself to open up your work to someone you trust and to someone who will give you a valuable, unbiased opinion of your story or poem or essay or song.
When I was initially writing my book my freshman year of college, I told my cousin Emily about it. I wrote and wrote and wrote and wrote. I wrote more than I’d ever written up to that point, because by this time I was also in school writing papers alongside personal writing. I even opened up my writing to one of my favorite professors. I allowed people to hold me accountable. I have since stopped telling people about my writing. I have since stopped saying, “Hey, I’m working on something, will you read it when I’m done?” And do you know what happened? I stopped writing. I stopped letting people give me their feedback. I stopped opening myself up to the world. I became too emotional, I let my demons take over. I believe there is value in letting your feelings and professional demeanor have equal weight in the business of writing. Without one, you have no structure; without the other, you have no heart.
So, I’ve resolved to tell you I’m working on something again. I’ve decided it shouldn’t matter whether or not I say the words, put them out there for people to take and never give back. If I quit writing, it’s not their problem. It is only, and will only ever be, my problem. I’m the one who will have to live with the neglect. If writing is important to you, you will eventually find a way to make it happen, even in the most inconvenient of circumstances. J.K. Rowling wrote Harry Potter on napkins, for goodness’ sake. When I was in high school and working in a jewelry store, I wrote story synopses on receipts to flesh them out into actual stories later. I was fascinated with writing, with creating these little made up worlds in my head and translating them to paper. Somewhere along the way to college, through college, and on the other side of college, I lost bits of that fascination. They fell away like stone eroding off a cliff. I don’t know why or how the erosion started, but I do I’m the only one who can stop it. I’m the only one can sit myself down in a chair and start typing down the words, and I’m the only one who can hand you the paper when I’m done.
