My most recent weeks have been filled with books. Fiction and non, graphic novels and reference books, almost everything that piques my interest. I do not have enough time to read everything I would like. My latest trip to the library had me stockpiling books by female authors, books on feminism and a book by Canadian favorite Margaret Atwood, “On Writers and Writing“. I have not been so inspired to write in such a long time.
I have been thinking endlessly now about how much it means to me to be able to put words on paper, how therapeutic it is for me. But as I do it more and more, day and night, I am left with the usual myriad of questions: Do I have anything to offer? How do I make all of these thoughts into a cohesive piece? Can I actually do this? Should I actually do this? Does anyone care? and on and on into the depths of my anxiety ridden brain until usually, pops out a tiny dark piece of prose or poetry and I feel satisfied.
In the expedition that is my life I am in strange sort of limbo waiting for something to happen. Writing gives me purpose when I feel so very lost. It lets me be honest about the monstrosities of my past and my family’s past (believe me this is no exaggeration). I can face the horror and turn it into something corporeal, even beautiful in it’s pain. Maybe one day I will have chronicled everything and can finally let it all go. This would allow me to move forward with purpose and direction.
There is also a great amount of trepidation in sharing my writing. Again come the questions, standing out the most: “Am I any good?” I think this is such a common worry that it feels trite bringing it up. But I am human, I am a survivor, and I hate to be judged. So of course I’m putting it all out there on the internet for everyone to see and giving anyone the ability to put their own personal evaluation on my work. Yes, the absurdity of this has occurred to me. My ego requires it however. I have an innate desire to share my work, to show off what I believe to be the best of me. I also do cling to the hope that maybe, possibly, I can help someone who has come from a dark place such as myself.
So, to be a writer…can I become one? Am I already one? Or is this just some fruitless expedition of me throwing words into the vast that is the internet? This cannot be answered until I fully embrace and embark on this journey. So I will write, I will cry, and I will bleed my feelings into characters on a screen or a paper until I cannot anymore. It is the only feasible option that I can see…to be a writer.