Excuses, Excuses


In a rare moment of solitude, I sat down with my phone, pulled up my post from yesterday, and just quietly read. I was fully expecting to stumble on a rat’s nest of misspellings and incoherent babble. I was almost disappointed to find it contained little more than vagueness. As prone to do when trying to kick myself in the ass to keep up on my writing, I eagerly begin clicking through the posts of some of my favorites. It can feel like catching up with an old friend over drinks, despite entertaining the company of only one. 

Often I find that the further I walk down that road, the more insecure I become of my own writing. The world is an intimidating place, overflowing with real talent. Talent for words. For storytelling. For painstaking detail, thought and love poured into each line. I flash back to my own words, and they seem hollow. They make sense to me, and perhaps that’s all that matters, but the substance…. It’s missing.

When I do find the time, the inspiration, god help me – the motivation, I can only contain the flood of thoughts bursting forth from my skull. There is detail up there. It’s not that I don’t recall the entire story I wish to unleash. Rather, I feel haunted by the permanence of the words splashing out before me. I’m afraid of my own words. My own thoughts. Afraid of who might read them. Those who may map out complex interpretation resulting in perceived malice. I’m terrified of that level of exposure.

Now here’s the real pickle: Unless I’m willing to free the story in its entirety, I will forever feel imprisoned by my own thoughts.  This tends to lead me to believe I need therapy (who doesn’t, right?). I need safety. I have been offered that safety by one person who means the absolute world to me, yet I can’t even seem to push myself past the barrier of embarrassment to release all the poison. Inhibited. It can be a miserable sensation.

Looking back on these words, I find I’m doing it again. There’s vagueness in my words. I suppose it’ll come when I’m ready. But what am I waiting for?

4 comments:

  1. I can't think of a better way to start: than that perfect question.

    xo

    ReplyDelete
  2. A truly powerful question for me. I'm almost there. But I'm careful as I well know my own fragility and tendencies to flee. Thank you for your support, My Sweet. Thank you.

    ReplyDelete
  3. Ah, yes, doubt. I'm all too familiar with that. Is my writing good enough? Will people get what I'm saying? Does it even make sense to anyone, or only to me?
    Yeah, I ask those questions all the time, and what I try (not always sucessfully) to tell myself, is that I'm doing it for me, and that's the only thing that matters.
    I'll say it again, Ninja Kitty, keep writing! It's much cheaper than therapy:)

    ReplyDelete
  4. I adore you, Vesta. And you're damn right it's cheaper than therapy. Plus there's some delight in imagining I'm off loading all the garbage so I don't have to keep lugging it about! :D Thank you, Honey. Sincerely. Thank you!

    ReplyDelete

Kitty

Friday, February 8, 2013

Excuses, Excuses


In a rare moment of solitude, I sat down with my phone, pulled up my post from yesterday, and just quietly read. I was fully expecting to stumble on a rat’s nest of misspellings and incoherent babble. I was almost disappointed to find it contained little more than vagueness. As prone to do when trying to kick myself in the ass to keep up on my writing, I eagerly begin clicking through the posts of some of my favorites. It can feel like catching up with an old friend over drinks, despite entertaining the company of only one. 

Often I find that the further I walk down that road, the more insecure I become of my own writing. The world is an intimidating place, overflowing with real talent. Talent for words. For storytelling. For painstaking detail, thought and love poured into each line. I flash back to my own words, and they seem hollow. They make sense to me, and perhaps that’s all that matters, but the substance…. It’s missing.

When I do find the time, the inspiration, god help me – the motivation, I can only contain the flood of thoughts bursting forth from my skull. There is detail up there. It’s not that I don’t recall the entire story I wish to unleash. Rather, I feel haunted by the permanence of the words splashing out before me. I’m afraid of my own words. My own thoughts. Afraid of who might read them. Those who may map out complex interpretation resulting in perceived malice. I’m terrified of that level of exposure.

Now here’s the real pickle: Unless I’m willing to free the story in its entirety, I will forever feel imprisoned by my own thoughts.  This tends to lead me to believe I need therapy (who doesn’t, right?). I need safety. I have been offered that safety by one person who means the absolute world to me, yet I can’t even seem to push myself past the barrier of embarrassment to release all the poison. Inhibited. It can be a miserable sensation.

Looking back on these words, I find I’m doing it again. There’s vagueness in my words. I suppose it’ll come when I’m ready. But what am I waiting for?

4 comments:

  1. I can't think of a better way to start: than that perfect question.

    xo

    ReplyDelete
  2. A truly powerful question for me. I'm almost there. But I'm careful as I well know my own fragility and tendencies to flee. Thank you for your support, My Sweet. Thank you.

    ReplyDelete
  3. Ah, yes, doubt. I'm all too familiar with that. Is my writing good enough? Will people get what I'm saying? Does it even make sense to anyone, or only to me?
    Yeah, I ask those questions all the time, and what I try (not always sucessfully) to tell myself, is that I'm doing it for me, and that's the only thing that matters.
    I'll say it again, Ninja Kitty, keep writing! It's much cheaper than therapy:)

    ReplyDelete
  4. I adore you, Vesta. And you're damn right it's cheaper than therapy. Plus there's some delight in imagining I'm off loading all the garbage so I don't have to keep lugging it about! :D Thank you, Honey. Sincerely. Thank you!

    ReplyDelete