The urge to write is thick. When I’m tired, when my gremlins take over, when it all feels pointless and futile, I find it within me to get out of my warm bed and write… Write like a motherfucker.So says Cheryl. I don’t write for anyone but myself. Or at least, that’s what I tell myself regularly. Yet this whole blogging experience has really shown me just how difficult it is to write. Period. For myself; for my imagined audience. It’s a lesson in continual self discovery. I constantly question why I write to begin with. Is it ego? Do I think I’m so great my words are worth reading? I did a postgraduate in publishing, so it must mean I have the propensity to write, yes? No.
When I really think about it, strip away the fantasy of my words maybe 1. being read. 2. being inspirational 3. evoking anything in someone and 4. even demonstrating I have talent… It really comes down to this inexplicable deep-within-me feeling… Feeling? Sense? This something like a balled up lump of unformed clay. .. No. Like a pile of old school letterpress letters and characters tangled and heaped together, this pull and urge to form and shape the mess into something readable. Tangible. I write because I have to. My 9 to 5 does not fulfill me. I write there too, but it doesn’t feed my soul. And these words do? They do. I think they do? I know they do. Forming words out of nothing into something brings small pings of joy to my heart. So I write. Ping. Ping. P I N G G G G g g g!
So I write.
Though it is hard. It is a chore. I promised myself just over a year ago I’d write a minimum of once a week. Minimum. And so with a bit of discipline I have kept this up (minus the time I was on a boat over the Christmas holiday). I have kept it up. Sometimes it’s easy to write. I feel the words flow out of me. Living life (Tinder!) presents many examples to expand upon; many ideas to develop; to write about. But so often I think, or rather, my ego—the little gremlins inside my head—thinks what’s the point? I’m no good. Nobody cares. Who am I writing for?
Then, as often is the case, something external of myself guides me. Reminds me; reminds you; reminds every encompassing personal pronoun. Whispers to me/you/EEPP what you must do. But only if you’re awake. Like really awake. Your eyes and ears and mind: open so you see/hear/are beyond your immediate reality.
Then I read Cheryl Strayed’s Write like a motherfucker… And so I write. For me first.
I did it for some fun. I did it to gain confidence in myself and my abilities.
Pointing to the page; untangling letters one ping at a time.