Typing this makes me think of that silly movie, I Heart Huckabees
How am I not myself?
I have become increasingly concerned with my lack of writing. I have become concerned with the goals I have set up for myself, and with my expectations. Just call me Pip. I am concerned with the idea that perhaps I'm less of a writer than I ever thought myself to be and, just maybe, I've been a one-trick pony this entire time. A writer good for a few sparklers - bright, snapping with fire... but ultimately ephemeral. Am I ephemeral in type?
I have grown to consider a few of my collection the"magnum opus" of my "writing career." As though it's all over as though I'm half-blind and crooked with age, mind infirm and reeling constantly into jags of clouded and hazy half-recollection and consideration. I question the fact that it matters to me - does this mean I am or ever was? I question the fact that it doesn't matter more - does this mean I can't be any longer or never was? I question why I ever thought I had a "voice," why I ever thought I had a discernible "style." What is that voice I hear within my head? Whose words are those committed to paper?
Could I ever have enough to say to fill the endless pages?
Could I ever write anything again that is as raw, as honest, as striking?
Was it ever, to begin with?
Of all of the things that I could be stripped of, this is last on my list. The missing-ness of it has come sneakily, stealthily - as shadows sometimes come creeping up the lawn, as fog seems to swell and swallow and recede all at once while you drive through it... So much so that I didn't know it had left, until it was gone. What's worse - for me - is the bulk of my writing for the past two years is being held hostage in some house in Lodi, wrapped but never mailed. I wonder if my feeling will fade when (if?) that is returned to me. Perhaps it's like a mother hen needing all of her little chicks in sight?
I do wonder, and heartily wish I knew what on earth to do with this feeling. This entry doesn't really do the creepy-crawliness of it justice.
You are ephemeral in type. Remember a few things:
ReplyDelete1) Every artist is the harshest critics of their own work. Half the stuff I hate, a lot of other people consider genius.
2) Being a writer isn't easy. No writer picks up a pen everyday, with coffee close by, and fluid writes the most amazing masterpiece on earth. Crap first drafts, followed by second decent drafts, and maybe an acceptable third draft is the least you can do. But, like anything else, writing is work. Try getting things published in free handouts or even in local newsprint. Expand exposure on the internet by letting your friends know you write. You'd be amazed at the outcome of those who're really interested in your work.
3) This entry is creepy-crawly. Maybe not too you, but it seems like there is definitely something lurking and peering around the corners at you. I know for certain that doubt creeps. Opportunity is polite enough to knock.