Monday, October 28, 2013

to fear and waver

Shroud for living room

I have not touched this blog nor written anything in a long time, and I am afraid of what that means. I am afraid because I know that I was once excited and inspired and anxious to write write write write write; to put pen to paper (or finger to key, now), to narrow down thousands of stories and thoughts into things that make sense, mean things, have power.

Love and turmoil. Perhaps a lack of the two (not individually, but coupled together – a fatal mix) has been the catalyst for such languor and laze. 

It’s not like I don’t still want to write. It’s not like I don’t still have ideas. (God knows my brain seems to be functioning on some level or another, though it might not be immediately apparent to the casual onlooker.) For some reason I just cannot bring myself to devote the time, the energy, the stasis that is to think, whilst still, about something that I care so much as writing.

Help help help help help me. I plead to no one but myself, ears plugged and eyes shut to the reality that I am letting myself slip.

almost here #20

All this conceptual talk needs something tangible, to ground it. I understand that. I will clarify:

what I mean is that I have always felt like I have been pretending, always felt like I have not been good enough – like I’ve had to scrape and scramble just to qualify as OK and now that I haven’t,

I’ve forgotten how to write the way I once did. Like school, the letting-go means that the fa├žade I’ve worked to maintain for so long is suddenly erased. The letting-go means that  that phase is over, that time is done. Never will I have the same frame of mind, that same want and power. All because

I’ve forgotten how to write the way I once did. Just as I’ve forgotten what it was like to care so much about every single infinitesimal moment and detail – to pore over each one in my memory like a jewel, needing to be handled calmly, and carefully. The cataloguing of my personal history as a way to narrow down exactly what I thought and how I felt at each and every moment of the day has ceased-

This decision was a conscious one. It was in part motivated by last half of this past summer’s emptiness, but also because of the “broader” factor that I can only (and most clearly) describe as a kind of fatigue. It is tiring, you know, to be obsessed with things that are essentially false – to be responsible for making stories out of truths only fragments and to then have to write them down, live by them, turn them real. All of that – couching nostalgia for the things that never and will never exist in terms of your average life – all of that is very taxing. And so it is natural that I became tired of it. 


It is winter in Massachusetts. Hibernation and disorientation begins to settle in, like it does, every winter. I’m not sure what things will be like for me now, if I will write again. I think I will, but, like I say, I’m not sure. It takes time and effort – this is alright, these are two things I am willing to part with because God knows I throw them both without much thought away all the time – but it also takes will, which I am not sure that I have or that I know how to procure (this is at the very center of my paralyzing fear surrounding this issue).


Once I was told that “to be a good writer, you have to do it every day.” These words did not scare me; for then I was writing every day. But now, with my frail fingers and pale words I’m not so sure any more what that means. How do I live with it? What if I never amount to my hopes?


1. Miranda Lehman
2. Aloha Garden (?)
3. Signs and Wonders (a great blog)
4. Miranda Lehman (again)

1 comment:

  1. If this helps, John Keats once said "If it doesn't come naturally, It had better not come at all". Though, I'm not trying to comfort you, even if infrequently occurring, you haven't lost your words. Also what you just wrote I read, so that's worth something. I really love your poe-tastic depressiveness, sorry