2 posts tagged “writing”

i was reading "writing down the bones" and came across this question.  the author said something that spoke true to me.

"writing is deeper than therapy.  you write through your pain, and even your suffering must be written out and let go of."

i won't even begin to pretend that my life has been full of that much pain because it hasn't.  no great tragedy has befallen me.  nothing has happened that i couldn't handle.  i've had my share of growing pains, of loss, and mistakes.  i may not have handled it well but i survived.  physically, all my needs were met.  emotionally, something was lacking, so for ME, areas of my life have been painful.  i always wondered why i had a compulsive need to write.  i've kept a journal since i was in the 4th grade.  all of the notebooks are still in a drawer at my parents house.  things have changed since then.  all of my journaling is done on my computer, whether on blogs or journaling software, rather than in spiral notebooks.  but the fact that i need to write is the same.

why do i write?  i write to preserve my life.  i write because i can't remember.  i write to stay alive.  i write because i can't find the words to express how i feel or what i think until it has been written.  i let the words flow as they come and then when i read the words back to myself, i can see where i am.  i could go an entire day without talking.  i could not go an entire day without writing.  i read to lose myself.  i write to find myself.

another excerpt:

"to begin writing from our pain eventually engenders compassion for our small and groping lives.  out of this broken state there comes a tenderness for the cement below our feet, the dried grass cracking in the terrible wind.  we can touch the things around us, we once thought ugly and see their special detail, the peeling paint and gray of shadows as they are - simply what they are: not bad, just part of the life around us - and love this life because it is ours and in the moment there is nothing better."

so why do you write?

carousel
garage
lamb

sometimes i feel like a gerbil, running around and around on its wheel: running, looking around, and then realizing i really haven't gone anywhere.  maybe that's why i hate carousels.  i don't see the point of them.  brightly colored horses with eyes wide open and lips peeled back.  mirrors and lights creating the illusion of a magical ride.

there was a guy in college who we called "fingers".  he could lift things no one would think of stealing.  his apartment had a collection of furniture he had taken from the dorm rec room, lounge, and even a lecture hall.  street signs labeled each of the rooms, a stop sign hung on his bedroom door, and there was a speed limit for the hallway.  the best was the newspaper dispenser he had gotten from the corner.  i later noted that the remaining ones were chained to the lamppost.  then, he showed up on my door step one night with a plastic lamb that looked like it had once been part of a carousel.  i don't know where he got it from and i never asked.  it didn't matter.  it was a gift.  i love that lamb.  it's still in my garage.  sometimes i like to sit on it and reminisce.

but that was a long time ago...