The
Writing Closet
With my
disorganized brain, writing is like reaching into an overstuffed closet and
trying to pull out my favorite sweater without pouring the entire contents of
the closet at my feet. Disengaging coherent thoughts from the chaotic, swirling
jumble of my mind can be tricky. Sometimes this involves planting both feet on
the closet door jams and tugging the sweater out with all my might. Other days
the sweater comes right out, along with a scarf, boots, hat, poncho, umbrella,
etc. and I have to slam the door shut to stop the flow. On these days, I write
like I talk, with words gushing out faster than I can type them down, or even
develop into complete and coherent thoughts or concepts. These are good writing
days. But my muse is fickle, and I cannot count on those free flowing days.
Thus, I am often in a battle to even make myself approach my writing closet,
for fear of failure, or the torturous tug of war for inspiration that often
plagues me. Sadly, I have given into this fear on far too many occasions.
I honestly enjoy writing, on my good days. It
is exhilarating and elicits from me my best and my all. I love the thrill of
creating something and having others appreciate my work. But I cannot write casually, I would not know
how. My perfectionist personality takes over. I invest as much of my heart and
soul into a facebook post as I do for the final paper for a class. The prospect
of writing is daunting, because this process drains me emotionally and
physically. Consequently, simply thinking about opening the door to my writing
closet is enough to make me turn around and walk the other way.
As I look back
on my writing in high school, I find myself missing writing by hand. Typing is
a quicker method of recording my thoughts, but there is something about
physically putting pen to paper that brings words to life, that typing just
cannot duplicate. I still hear my eighth grade English teacher explaining about
taboo words in writing: I, have, has, was, is, be, you, would, should, could,
etc., none of which I have yet eliminated from my writing. I fondly recall most
of my English teachers, they were all very encouraging when it came to my
writing. They drilled me endlessly on essays and their construction. I received
a strong foundation of writing skills, which I prize highly.
Since leaving
college to raise my kids, I have not often opened that cluttered closet. Except
for a few message boards and email groups, and now facebook posts, my writing
“body of work” consisted of infrequent personal journal entries and the
occasional letter. I shut off a vital part of myself and a uniquely cathartic
outlet, which would have helped in weathering life's storms. I regret not being
braver all these years. When I began classes this past fall, returning after a
seventeen year hiatus, I was surprised how much I missed writing. I still
struggle with writing fears, but each new success spurs me on to my next
writing adventure. Moving forward with my education, I relish the stretching
and growing my writing will undergo in pursuit of a Bachelor's degree.
