I miss you, words. I miss all the doors you held open for me that led to other places only a breath away.
Lately my writing feels flat and heavy like I’m working with a sheet of slate instead of paper, and writing things down is tiring. I write in my book at cafes these days, write with both my hands until they both get tired, and I flex my fingers, do rolls with my wrists, grip the pen again, and keep going. Writing with a pen, it’s like I have to earn each word, writing even when my arms and hands burn, building muscles the more I tell. And meanwhile, my writing voice sounds thick and blurry, like perhaps it recently had its tongue pierced. But the only way I know back into the good writing is to just plod ahead and keep trying something; otherwise, I’ll really lose my way.
Good god, the life got big and sharp and plugged in, turned like a neon light ON. I’ve been blinded by it, unable to see my way past my own unbelievable story happening to how to write a story for others to read. I’m so jam-packed with things to say; it’s hard to get any good words out. In the center of my sprawling, still-knitting life story’s tangle, I’m currently boggled as to how to craft something with a beginning, middle, and end.
For the past year, my life has showcased a series of rugs pulled out and rollercoaster loops—highly dramatic, with much beauty interspersed, pain along with deep healing. Main point: this life is unpredictable and ever-changing. It refutes traditional narrative structure completely, and yet throughout it all, the story I’m living is crushingly poetic, meaningful and also mean, and gorgeous.
I want to share that beauty so bad. Share how the life really is, how even when it hurts, it also contains beauty so absolute; it’s an epiphany. And here I am, slowly carving letter after letter into the hard slate, causing my internal backup to grow greater, as I wish I could let loose the good words, the magic words of doors opening into truth.