To commit to being a writer is a slow-drawn suicide laden with suffocating grief.
I fail to believe one chooses to become a writer, more so the words we read as children noticed our shy gap, an insecure center, and buttered themselves in to the ridges between ribs. Perhaps they thought themselves a helpful comfort, but their inhabitance instilled helpless human sensitivities and created pressure points I purposefully push.
Words, weird little words, who help hurt feelings and detail the drab days. Why can’t you wrap your angular arms right ‘round the center of my neck, nice and tight?
To squelch your curiosity, I have forever been this over-the-top engulfed with intensity. Passion remains my strong suit in arenas of interaction: the depth of my friendships, the intensity of sexual encounters, the vigor with which I drink alcohol or ingest drugs, how I staple words to situations, my connection with fresh-baked bagels. I fucking love the things I choose therefore despise and openly mock everything else. Harmonious unrest suits my snarky soul.
I am most likely being dramatic.
Back to words, the most selfish of symbols- writers block is a total boxing match with a black hole, blackonblackonblackonblack for those already victim to the trap-door brain patterns of depression. Black bombs that drip paint, the anxious lightning that splits before it strikes, defeated darkness has forever been the vernacular of We The Wordsmiths. A self-replenishing blessing combined with curse, if blessings were real.
It’s impossible to not attempt the damn craft, even as it continuously fails to fulfill mountaintop expectations. It is the upmost personal betrayal when words weave themselves trite, dizzy with discomfort.
Imagine losing control of the space between your ribs.
Masked pleasantly as a graduation gift, hordes of newfound down time have hindered my ability to project creatively. This scrap is the first flow I’ve ridden in too many weeks. Scoops of thought that serve as the result of a morning full of solo-sob-stylings in the kitchen of a new home where I am discovering companionship with unknown faces for the third time, myself for the first time.
Despite the unfortunate inability to write Anything Worth a Publishable Shit, I have been scribbling a lot of letters since moving to my Rainier corner of the world. A forcible, jarring opening of eyes comes served with guilty plentiful couldashouldawouldas, sorry I didn’t and sorry I did. Uprooting allowed awareness to shine over how deep I was scabbing the skin of others by dabbling in Losing My Mind, I am utilizing inherent communicative ability to shed dusty skins. I dutifully succumb to honesty and appreciate the relief.
Trying by way of reading and writing, nutritional yeast, tea and abstinence. Inching towards health with stamps that cost forty-four cents.
My letters to you are not application cover letters, dreamy notebook entries or fantastic displays of unique, thought-provoking journalistic ability. Carefully addressing the repercussions of my actions on the lives I’ve broken fills slots of unfortunate silence with words that would go unused otherwise, thanks to the nature of the slump. From those words came these, and I am grateful for that.
The moral snippets of story are always winding, long-winded and take too many revisions. Today holds time for none of the above, therefore giving me the right to cut to the chase: forgive yourself for the misgivings you have handed out haphazardly, forgive others for their basic moral disjunctions and differences in belief and forgive your trusted skills when they deny you immediate aid.
For solace, rely on the people whose character you believe in and support their efforts at survival in return. Shit is fucked for most everyone but mere attempts at understanding one another’s experiences help, they help, they help.
Inspirational vomit from the girl who bathes in cynicism can be taken seriously if you remember that each day proves to be remarkably different that those before, even if it’s just stupider. Break down your wordly barrier and write me a letter at 1705 Prospect Ave. NE, Olympia, WA 98506. Just fucking try.
Painting by Egon Schiele.