Friday, August 8, 2014

Writing therapy

^^^pictures of plants that have nothing to do with this post because they've stayed alive for over a month^^^

I started writing again. I mean like real writing. Writing from the heart. I kinda stopped several months ago. It's like the words just ran out. They poured out of me like a flood for a little while, and then they slowly trickled to a stop until they were just gone. If I thought about it, it made me sad, but I figured the words would come back when they were ready and everything would be fine. Words and I could continue on our merry way together. But several weeks went by and the thought of opening my laptop and clicking on Google docs seemed like such a daunting task. What was I going to write about? What if there wasn't anything? Did I really want to find out that my word well had run dry?

Well, a few weeks ago I took the plunge and stretched my digits and placed my fingertips on the computer keys. And then I let them type whatever they desired. Whatever story needed to come out of my heart right then. They were a little rusty at first, creaky and stiff, grinding out slightly awkward sentences and strange punctuation. But the more I trudged, the looser they got. The faster they typed until the words were spilling out so fast I had to hope they wouldn't run away from me. And when that poem ended I pulled out my journal and started writing in that. And when that wasn't enough I came here.

You see, I've discovered something. Maybe a part of the reason why words have been avoiding me. Writing is emotional to me, a way to explore my feelings, let myself in, stroll through my memories. It feels good in a soul wrenching kind of way. Pulling a good poem out of the corners of my heart leaves me feeling empty and fulfilled, kind of like the way a good cry and a shower feel after a really hard week. I write to understand. To put voices to my deepest fears in hopes that it will make them less terrifying. I write to make sense of my emotions, so I can understand this emotional female teenage brain I've been blessed with. I think the reason I stopped writing was because I was afraid of feeling. Afraid of what my emotions would do to me. Senior year was a time when familiar emotions appeared in my heart in new and foreign ways, teaching me things I hadn't learned yet, reaching new and unexplored corners of my heart. After graduation, I needed a time of recovery. Personal space, recuperation, relaxation before the stress kicked in again. The break was good, but then the feelings and the words were gone. I'm afraid of what my emotions do to me, but at the same time, I'm afraid of losing them. They are part of what defines me. They are a part of my soul that reign wild and free, but that I desperately need to feel every bit myself.

With starting to write again, I've made myself evaluate writing and it's importance to me. How much I want this, this writer life. And I've decided that I want it a lot. So much it hurts, twisting my stomach in knots and squeezing my lungs until I think I might burst. So much that I am absolutely terrified to write a single word. So much that I know that if I don't write, the regret will suffocate me until there is nothing left. And because I want it, I need to work for it. I need to explore and put myself out there and stretch my mind to create new sentences. To combine new words to make new phrases that connect into paragraphs and eventually form stories. If I want this, I need to work for it. I'm pulling myself up by my bootstraps and getting down to work. Let's do this. I'm going to be a writer.

Sincerely, mad

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