{{A re-post!}
Writing sweats it out of you, sometimes turnip blood, sometimes holy water, but the act is always a birth, a labor to be endured with sturdy legs and open mouth. There’s such pain rooted in the craft, which is inexorably tied to bliss, both binding together in a paroxysm of creation. A single burst of inspiration sometimes. A hard-scrabble bout with crippling insecurity others. And you never apprehend the way it ekes from you – a spurt, a stream, a leak? – to make it happen just the same way twice. Words are water, writing is wind; it puffs, it squalls, it sings; it hauls you up, it plants you down. I know this all to be true, every unsettling consequence, and still I puzzle it out, usually in the midst of a tunnel I’m scrambling from, clutching scraps of paper with messages I’ve scrawled and bled out: Why all this fuss, all this fracas? Must I twist in the labyrinth, search for words, trust them to lead me somewhere I’ve never been?
Yes. Because the the light gleams in the nethers and I will forever coax it out. The shadows bubble there, too, somewhere profound and bottomless, and it’s equally important to summon their mournful stories of closed bedroom doors and the girl waiting inside. I’m not always ready for the surfacing, but I welcome what comes because the girl needs me to bust open the door. But sadly, so sadly many writers shut it. Told one time or another they’re no good, they should stop trying, or worse, they’re not writers. Somberly still, these arrows of criticism are sometimes slung by the people closest to us, and those are the deepest gashes to the soul. That kind of silence is the heaviest of all, a thunder clap that erases all else but the voices in a writer’s head. Belief in self is unyielding for some; but for writers, it can be wearisome and a mountain to scale with scabby fingers and burned-up spirit.
It takes some of us years to shed the belief that our words have no value, don’t hold worth; that we should shut up because who wants to hear what we have to say.
So why would someone, anyone, especially another writer, join the army of voices in your head?
We all know what it’s like, the sweat, the shadows, the silence. Put down your battle axe.
The wind calls us both to the labyrinth.
Lean in close so I can whisper in your ear:
You’re a writer. A crazy-gifted one. In case you didn’t know it or someone else has told you something different.
Did you hear?
Deb, negative people suck. You can’t change them. You CAN always try to avoid them. And don’t listen to them. If you must, look upon them analytically as if they were strange bugs. Feel sorry for them and their negative selves. And then walk away.
Then do your own thing. Look for those that support you and love you for all you are. And really, it’s EASY for people to support you, because you ARE amazing! :-)
This was amazing, Deb.
WORD.
Debbie Deb. I love your butt.
Whoa. Just whoa.
Thanks!!
This is just beautiful. I want to print it and post it near my computer as THE WORD. You are such an inspiration, do you know that?
I had a cathartic October in which I truly hemorrhaged words, most of which are curled up in little clots inside my hard drive. Whenever I write that way it takes so much out of me I become ill. No one seems to understand what I mean when I say that, but this piece validates me and everyone else going through the process.
Yes, yes, yes. Thank you for putting this out into the cosmos to contradict the bad voices (real or imagined).
It’s true, that voice of doubt is a strong thing.
We’re all in this together. You certainly live this way. I hope I do too.
I loved reading this post. Most of us have to write, right? It’s just oozing out of our pores, so to speak. So I agree, we should support, cheer on, urge each other forward. Thank you for your powerful words!
writing is like open heart surgery with no pain meds or eether. Why anyone would hurt someone else over their writing is beyond me.
I love the community I’ve joined through my writing/blogging.