August 08, 2001

Last night, after I wrote the last entry, I sat alone in my living room, lighted by only one candle. And I asked myself to be real and truthful and let whatever had to come out, come out.

I wasn’t going to judge it, I wasn’t going to try to write it or share it. I’d just have that moment to myself, and let it all be real.

The moment lasted for over an hour. Tears had come down my face, my nose was crinkled up and I cringed more than a few times. I think I swore internally for a good minute or two. My body was tense and unsure.

But at the end of it, my mind was alive and a smile was on my face.

I discovered what my block had been – it was me. It was me not being real or truthful with my writing.

In my day to day world, I’m real. I’m not fake, I don’t try, I don’t pretend. That is one trait that so many people, including myself, tend to admire about me. But the problem is, when I wrote, I lost that. I lost myself.

I tried to do the “good writing”, and it wasn’t real. It wasn’t me. And that truly bothered me.

The other block was that I had claimed to be only a writer, and I’m not. Secretly, I’ve wanted to call myself an artist. However, I never acted out on it. And it bothered me to declare myself something, but not be it. Again, I felt I wasn’t being real.

So, today, I signed up for an art class to learn what I so desperately want to learn. I signed up to volunteer at the art museum so that I’m involved with what I love but also doing something that I’m good at. After that, something felt lifted in me. It felt like the gates had open and I could run free again.

With that, I wrote today. I wrote those articles I’ve been trying to write but haven’t been able to. They literally wrote themselves, I just moved my fingers on the keyboard. And when I wrote, my emotions came out that lead me to know that finally, I was writing from the heart. I was keeping it real.

Sometimes, when things aren’t going right, or you’re confused or alone, you just want someone to come in and fix it. You don’t want to be responsible for it, you don’t want to admit that perhaps, you’re the problem. I know that’s how I felt.

But I knew that I had to look at myself and try to figure out what was going on here, because it’s my job to reflect on what I see, and if I can’t reflect on myself, then how could I ever write?

I feel so much better now. I feel like I can move forward. I know this isn’t the last thing I’ll learn and that it won’t all be easy from here, but that’s ok. Writing is like life; it’s a process. There are days when you kick ass at it and some days, not so much. And strangely, I wouldn’t have it any other way.

Tweet This Post