For a long while, I didn’t write at all. No, it wasn’t writer’s block. I have never had writer’s block. I think it was a sense of general apathy that sucked me under and finally spit me out. At the time I blamed it on life. Things were crazy, and life was imposing its will on me, driving out my creative impulses and time. But I know now that it wasn’t true. What I really needed to do was include my life in my writing, and to include my writing in my life because they weren’t as separate as I had originally thought.
I remember when I first started writing, back in seventh grade when everything seemed so bleak, but it was just childhood issues, the ones that always haunt us years later because we never dealt with them at the time. Being a loner seems to be the path of the young writer, the angst against the world, feeling left out, and being different rising up within us and coming out in an explosion on the page. That’s when I wrote on actual pages in actual notebooks pilfered from school, or from my mom’s room, or wherever else I could find a page and a used pen in order to write.
And write I did, morning, noon, and night. I had nothing better to do, having no friends, and I thrived on the sensation I got from getting all of those emotions out. At first I only wrote fiction because it was creative, and I felt I was too; paltry, kid stuff it was, with generous cliches and simple word choices. And I shared it with anyone who would listen — not such a large group, but at least I tried. I finally hit it big, though, when I decided to write the class poem for eighth grade graduation. I have the video around here somewhere. Not my finest moment as I tried to force out tears that refused to come, and as I paused while reading my poem for applause that also refused to come. But I was on the move, and I didn’t slow down from that point on.
As I got older my subject matter got darker, my cliches grew more sparse, and my vocabulary bloomed in all the right places. I stopped writing obvious mysteries and began to delve into more intense subject matter, with more surprises, and more pain. Because, you see, I began writing to get out that pain that was buried deep inside of me. I was done with punching the walls. All that did was hurt my hand and get people to start asking questions. I needed more, and writing became that “more” for me. It was the perfect outlet when nothing else seemed to work, when I had no one else. All the time, I still had me, and my own imagination helped me out of many a dark spot.
Then I decided to write down my thoughts, plainly and simply, which was a whole lot scarier than writing the fiction that I wrote, or even writing the poetry, which was couched in metaphor and double entendre. This was me, as naked as I could possibly be on the page, and it made my knees shake and my teeth rattle. But I NEEDED to do it, to get it out, to be just that naked because there was no way I was going to truly get past it until I admitted it to myself. Writing is how I admit truths that I deny in all other ways, and it’s like birth. It’s the most disgusting, most beautiful thing possible. So, I started my journals, and I poured my heart and soul into each and every page in them. If I truly needed catharsis, it was provided for me between those covers.
But then I grew complacent, and I gave it all up. That intense desire to close myself off from the world, and more specifically from myself drowned me in itself until I couldn’t find myself anymore, and my writing died. And I made a plethora of excuses. I blamed the family, I blamed the job, I blamed everything else but what really was the matter. Me. I was too much in my head, and I refused to do the one thing that would have actually helped me. Talk about bullheadedness! And I just let it go on too long, until I didn’t even think I could call myself a writer anymore. I was anything but. I was a complainer. I was a procrastinator. I was a student. I was a teacher. But I wasn’t a writer. I let it fester too long.
Until I just couldn’t take it anymore, and no matter how hard it was, I began to write again, slowly at first, and then it became an avalanche. No floodgates could stop the deluge of words that poured from me. I just couldn’t get enough as poem after poem, short story after short story, and journal entry after journal entry exploded from me, long pent up and finally ready to play. Long overdue. And I vow not to let that apathy creep in again. My words are my heart, and I will make sure they are free to be.
Sam
Sam's Online Journal 
I loved this. I think we all feel that way sometimes. You’re not alone. Good for you getting past something that holds so many people back and stops them from being who and what they really are.
Thank you for your words of community. That’s what I love about this blogosphere. There are always people who can relate, even if you’ve never met before. I enjoy your words of wisdom too.
I have to admit that I wasn’t expecting this aspect of it when starting out with the whole blogging things (maybe that was silly of me?). I didn’t really know what I was expecting, to be honest with you. But I love going to some random person’s blog and reading exactly how I’m feeling now or have felt recently. Of course it’s usually written better than I could ever do. 😉
I think that, as writers, we sometimes get so caught up inside our own little worlds (our heads) that we don’t even realize how many more of us are out there, feeling that way. As I said in my last entry, it can be the loneliest place imaginable. I’m just now realizing that it doesn’t have to be.
That’s one of the best things about having something in common that draws you together with so many others. It definitely doesn’t have to be lonely. I’m going to a poetry reading tonight, and I’m excited to be around others who write as I do, even if they write so much differently than I do. Oh, two more things. I think you’re an excellent writer, judging from what I saw on your page. And two, thank you for following me. 🙂
I’m so envious of poets. They have this way with words that is just lost on me. It’s amazing how they can make you sit there and wonder what in the world they were going through to write what they did (just like how amazing song lyrics can do the same thing).
I think the solitude helps me WHILE I’m writing, but it’s nice to come back up to the surface, breathe some clean air, and look around at other people doing the exact same thing.
Thanks for the compliment. I’m curious…do you ever feel like your writing is good enough? I’m never satisfied with mine.
I’ll tell you a secret. Sometimes when I’m writing poetry, I’m not feeling anything at all. I just let the words flow, and they seem to remember what I was feeling when I was feeling things. Weird, huh? But shhhh, keep it on the down low.
Another funny thing is that I don’t need stillness to write. Usually so many things are going on in this house when I’m writing, or when I’m writing in the library, or on the street corner, or wherever I happen to be. I can either block it out or merge it with my writing. I think some of my best work has come out of the busiest times, with bustle and hustle behind me.
You’re welcome for the compliment, but you pose a difficult question. The answer is that some of my writing, yes, I do feel it is good enough. But not nearly enough of it, and the things you think I would be happy with I’m not. Ha ha. The life of a writer. You mean to say you’ve never been satisfied with a single thing you’ve written?
Is your novel writing tactic similar to your poetry one? I couldn’t manage that…I bawl like a baby sometimes when I’m writing. Or laugh. That’s part of the reason I prefer to be alone (better than people giving me ‘the eye’ and mouthing to their companions, “Who is that crazy lady?”) In a sense it seems strange, but at the same time it doesn’t. Maybe removing yourself from the feeling lets you be an observer to yourself? Does that make sense? Your secret is safe with me (and anyone else who reads your blog) XD.
I need ABSOLUTE stillness to write. If there is any noise at all, I have to wear earplugs. It’s like sprinting in a race – the tiniest noise is an elephant being plopped in my way. Then it takes me ten minutes to get around said elephant and back on track. Speaking, music, outside noise…it messes me up so badly. Nighttime is my friend, obviously.
I’m satisfied with the series that I’m attempting to get published, yes, but I think there are levels of satisfaction. I’m satisfied enough with it to leave it alone (meaning I can’t even open the document or I WILL mess with it). It’s the most satisfied that I’ve been with any writing, but I think being a perfectionist keeps me consistently disappointed. It’s a bummer, for sure.
You know, Chellie, I think any writer worth his or her salt who wants other people to read his or her work is also a perfectionist. I know I am. I remember my most recent novel, when I finally finished it in the editing process I had to just get away from it. I’m like you that way, I will fiddle, and I knew I just couldn’t anymore. That story had been told, and had been edited, and was in the form it needed to be in.. .in the end.
I cannot even imagine writing in a vacuum like that. I think I did that a few times before, and it was a disaster for me. I think silence just stunts me for whatever reason. Eek.
And my novel writing is just like that pseudo-excerpt you read, it’s just like life, so yes, it would probably make you bawl on occasion, but it is uplifting too, in its own way. Emotional connection is my big thing when writing larger works like that. So YOU’RE the crazy lady I keep hearing about. 😉
I try to observe myself when I’m writing sometimes, but I’m not that good about assessing those things. I just write. I’m a writer, and I’m satisfied with that. No pulling at strings. I might end up naked that way. LOL.
I think you’re right. They’re either a perfectionist, or unfairly gifted (attitude wise). My husband has the most laid back attitude in the world and I am constantly worrying about everything. We even each other out – I keep him on track and he keeps me calm (most of the time…). On my second editing of that series, I added over 10,000 words to the last book. Second editing. TEN THOUSAND WORDS. The third (and final) editing went much more smoothly and I just had to tell myself, “Seriously. Stop. It’s fine. STOP.”
I never thought I would enjoy the vacuum. In fact, I couldn’t even stand sitting alone in a room until a few years ago – I needed constant human company. I actually love having my quiet, alone time now. It’s peaceful; it helps me get away from all the stresses of the world.
I was asking if, when writing a novel, you were emotional about it? Or if (like your poetry writing) you tried to take a few steps back and just let it flow? As for me crying over your book…it would be likely. I don’t like crying over life, but put a book or movie in front of me and I will be trying to run away from people so that they can’t see the tears.
Uplifting too, in its own way. LOL. That sounds like something I would say to explain mine. Mine is happy…in its own way.
And yes, it’s feasible that I’m that crazy lady, but you likely haven’t heard of me because I live in a vacuum.
Best not to pull at too many strings. XD
Ah, well there is a conundrum, trying to figure out how I approach my novel writing. I just try to take a step back. It’s funny how sometimes when I let the words sit there and come back to them later how they welcome me like an old friend when I return, but I can get emotional reading the lines I myself wrote, the kind of emotional I don’t get when I’m actually writing them. Hope that answered your question.
As for the editing process, I do my best to shave instead of adding during it. Sometimes I have to, when shifting scenes, or doing some character addition, add wordage, but I don’t do too much of it. I believe in my editing process for the novel I just published I added a grand total of 500 words. My wife does my first editing process for me, by the way, and she keeps me honest. She knows when I’m writing characters that aren’t believable. She keeps me sane, actually, so I know where you’re coming from with your husband.
And yes, I have heard of you, and I’m glad I have. But those strings aren’t going to pull themselves. 😉
I am glad you came back to writing.
Me too, Daryl. Me too. Thank you for saying so.
I have written for a long time but I am new to blogging and I love it. I can relate to your post and to your conversation with cnmill and you have given me much to chew on as I examine my motives and drive to write.
Motives are tricky devils, Lily. When you think you have them cornered and sussed out, they can surprise you and come out completely different than how they went in. But that’s okay, as long as you keep writing and work through them. I am so glad that our conversation is helping you consider.
As am I (glad).