The Scarlet Letter
It's strange how removal of one element in your life can initiate the domino effect, causing many other, relatively unrelated elements to come tumbling down. We are now cresting the one year mark of my erasure of a certain person from my life. Since then I have undeniably struggled with not only finding daily happiness but a number of other things. The one thing that I did not expect to struggle with was my writing.
Of course I am no Hemingway or Browning, but really this is one of my hidden passions. I have not blogged in quite some time and yet whenever I try, I find myself feeling quite frustrated with the entire process. If I didn't care about the order, or the sound, or the meaning of the words chosen, by all means I am sure that I would not have as much difficulty as I have been experiencing. But you see, that is the point of being a writer. It matters. It all matters. Right down to the punctuation.
Within the span of this last year I have repeatedly attempted to add to my poetry collection only to find myself writing about things that no long matter, or on those rare occasions when I do produce something of worth, I rip it apart with criticisms. I suppose I am too hard on myself. And yet I know that this is something of worth inside me just waiting to be expressed, just waiting to be converted to words. I have officially hit a dry spell. My nose is against the wall. The writer's block has set in.
Yet I must not forget to leave out my most recent creation, one that nearly the entire world will never read. Those words never to be seen by any other eyes but the ones they were intended for. Kubler Ross would tell me that I am grieving. But I say it's time to let go. It's time to just leave it all behind. I like to call them, my last words.
Last week I was hanging with the girls. Amidst the update on our lives was some advice, powerful advice, and it came to me in one word. Forgiveness. So despite the appearance of boldness, I ventured into Wal-Mart and bought some college ruled notebook paper, and began to write. I wrote for about 3 hours. At first I was sure that this was going to be my final draft and thus I wrote with my best penmenship. I was thoughtful and thorough. But then I hit a point when how it looked didn't matter so much anymore. It was the words that mattered. Even more than that, it was the emotion behind those words that mattered. I scribbled out 6 pages of 3 years of feelings, and really there was so much more than that, just begging to be expressed.
The next day I sat with my thesaurus and revised those six pages. As I sealed the envelope, it was perfect. I addressed the letter, omitting my return address and then dropped it into the mailbox, not caring if it got lost along the way. Not caring if it was ever read. Not caring if it provoked anger within its reader. Just not caring. Just writing. And feeling free.
Of course I am no Hemingway or Browning, but really this is one of my hidden passions. I have not blogged in quite some time and yet whenever I try, I find myself feeling quite frustrated with the entire process. If I didn't care about the order, or the sound, or the meaning of the words chosen, by all means I am sure that I would not have as much difficulty as I have been experiencing. But you see, that is the point of being a writer. It matters. It all matters. Right down to the punctuation.
Within the span of this last year I have repeatedly attempted to add to my poetry collection only to find myself writing about things that no long matter, or on those rare occasions when I do produce something of worth, I rip it apart with criticisms. I suppose I am too hard on myself. And yet I know that this is something of worth inside me just waiting to be expressed, just waiting to be converted to words. I have officially hit a dry spell. My nose is against the wall. The writer's block has set in.
Yet I must not forget to leave out my most recent creation, one that nearly the entire world will never read. Those words never to be seen by any other eyes but the ones they were intended for. Kubler Ross would tell me that I am grieving. But I say it's time to let go. It's time to just leave it all behind. I like to call them, my last words.
Last week I was hanging with the girls. Amidst the update on our lives was some advice, powerful advice, and it came to me in one word. Forgiveness. So despite the appearance of boldness, I ventured into Wal-Mart and bought some college ruled notebook paper, and began to write. I wrote for about 3 hours. At first I was sure that this was going to be my final draft and thus I wrote with my best penmenship. I was thoughtful and thorough. But then I hit a point when how it looked didn't matter so much anymore. It was the words that mattered. Even more than that, it was the emotion behind those words that mattered. I scribbled out 6 pages of 3 years of feelings, and really there was so much more than that, just begging to be expressed.
The next day I sat with my thesaurus and revised those six pages. As I sealed the envelope, it was perfect. I addressed the letter, omitting my return address and then dropped it into the mailbox, not caring if it got lost along the way. Not caring if it was ever read. Not caring if it provoked anger within its reader. Just not caring. Just writing. And feeling free.
posted by Patti RN | 1:13 PM
4 Comments:
sister, i read your blog and it makes me sigh. such a soul haveth thee.
this poem that i read once also reminds me of what you have written:
her last song
it's no secret now, everone knows
it's my shoulder the night uses to cry,
my bedroom with six hundred windows,
my feet where the truth comes to die.
mky pillow where the moon can't stop weeping,
while the tide washehs the prints in the sand,
those eyes that seek out new meaning,
your carred, broken soul in my hands.
this pulse that's been chainend to your sorrow,
dandelions amidst lilies of snonw,
someday i will see through your disguise,
someday pick my name from your lies.
till then i'll hide my soul in your scrapbook,
with the photographs there and the moss,
and i'll yield to the flood of your innnocence,
with my cheap guitar and my cross.
and you may carry me down into the darkness,
wipe my slate with the flick of your wrist.
take this verse, this accursed harness--
it's yours now; it's all that there is.
austin lobo
Good to see more writing on your blog. I'd love to see you and hang out when I'm down there this week. Give me a call. Otherwise I'll just try to find you!
i was just thinking, for the sake of writing, we must find more in life moving than just love in all its unrequitedness. whenever i feel the sun, it makes we want to write, or when i see the empty armor men watching me at school, i always want to write. i wish those moments would find you too.
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