Writer's Block
It may come as no surprise that I am procrastinating with my writing. I pretend I don't know why, but I do. When I write, I expose myself not only to the world but also to myself. That's an odd sentence to write, but it's true.
The process of writings one's thoughts clarifies and solidifies them in a way that is not possible when they float in the ether or even when they are voiced.
I am that person that sits with thoughts to understand them deeply, critically, entirely. It's easy to do this in an academic essay. I can research, discuss both sides, and proffer a well-considered argument supported by a mass of citations, all in a voice that is uniquely my own. At least that's what the feedback tells me. But…
I haven't written creatively for almost nine months, barring the letter last November in the style of 18th-century educationist Maria Edgeworth which was a creative piece and a delight to research and write. It's been easier to lock myself in the academic world. All the while, the private rumination and self-reflection continue, thoughts, ponderings and analysing of nuances. Even though I am enjoying the two writing subjects this semester immensely, when attempting to write creatively, I am struggling to put pen to paper or fingers to keyboard as an ongoing process and actually do the work.
So I, tired of excuses, put my pondering to good use, forcing myself to consider my reluctance. I have reached a place, personally, spiritually, emotionally, mentally, whatever way you want to see it, where I am good. Better than good, I am blooming. Just as I moved from photography to writing, is it time now to move on to something else? Do I still need the exposition and type of reflection that writing offered me? And so, here it is, in black and white, demon faced and laid bare before the world.
Because of the way I write, because my subject matter is deeply personal, I am afraid.
I am worried that I will be peeling back old scabs and opening old wounds if I write. Wounds long carried. Wounds that took a lifetime and, more recently, an intense period of 30 months to revisit, prise open, soothe, tend and heal. If I start writing again, what does my writing look like without that intensity? Without the deluge that was always threatening to come out. Will it be worth reading? Will it even be worth writing? I don't know what the stories inside me are anymore. I'm not sure it's possible to create them without the pressure of the inflammation that caused them.
Who am I as a writer without that pain gnawing away at my insides?
The short answer is, I don't know… yet.
Deadlines are looming. It seems I am about to find out.
Obsession
The New York Chronicles 12.1
Berg Collection
New York Public Library
5th Avenue
New York NY USA
December 2015