Writing… We all do it. Bloggers do it. Writers do it. I’m a writer. Right?
I wrote my very first blog post when I was upset. Really upset. I cried all the way through.
I started my blog at a time when, after a health scare, after a life scare, everything around me seemed pitch black.
And it helped. The tiniest ray of light shined through from deep within. Things started brightening. Yet, somehow, it wasn’t enough.
I wrote my very first flash fiction when I was sad. Really sad. I cried all the way through.
Before I started creative writing, I’ve been reading a lot of it on my friends’ blogs. I kept wondering how they managed to write so well, to leave me speechless. To inspire me to such heights. I believe it was/is the personal touch. The fearlessness of imperfection.
The friend (and wonderful editor) who inspired me the most was the first person to read that very first piece I wrote. She loved it. She’s the reason I started writing. And I am the reason I’m still writing.
I transferred all my pain, all my sadness into the piece I wrote.
And it helped. The story couldn’t be further from the reality of my life, yet it absorbed everything I was working through.
In one sitting.
Most of what I write, I write in one sitting; I can’t really leave a story unfinished until I don’t have an at least very rough draft. I wrote several pieces like that one in the same manner. Yet, somehow, it wasn’t enough.
This year, I’ve mostly written poetry that bares a profound meaning to me. And come to think of it, almost all the poetry I’ve written is very personal, goes to a deep level, even when readers wouldn’t notice that no matter how many times they read said poem. I like that about free verse. I like that about poetry. Yet, somehow, it seems like it wasn’t enough.
Because the same goes for my blog posts. Especially lately. After that very first blog post I wrote, for a very long time my posts weren’t too personal. They all reflected what I love, hate, question, etc. They all reflected me. But they weren’t filled with as much emotion and meaning (again, even if only perceived by me alone) as my latest posts are.
This is something I noticed as I was searching for a poem I wrote, among my very first poems. I went back through my blog posts as I searched and noticed the shift through them.
Not from one extreme to the other. Not from one day to the next. But gradually. Steadily.
And the only writing there’s no shift in? The poems. They started out intricate and remain the same.
I wrote these imperfect thoughts you’re reading last night when I was supposed to be sleeping. When I was anxious. Really anxious. About most everything. With all the memories coming back to me. I cried all the way through.
What the conclusion was supposed to be when I started writing this I can’t recall. However, the conclusion now is this: it helped.
Yet, somehow, it isn’t enough. So I will keep writing away little pieces of my soul. And hope it will keep helping, hope it will teach me more about being fearless of imperfection.