What does it take to write something moving, mesmerizing, powerful, and beautiful? It’s a recipe of inspiration, motivation, determination, a Thesaurus, some inner monologues that go something like: well I like this paragraph, but I don’t know if it really belongs here, but then I’d have to change that last sentence, and actually this character’s name should be changed, and I don’t know if that fragment is helping, etc; a few tears, memories, frustration, and tons and tons of editing.
I hate to confess, but I haven’t been motivated to write. I’ve been inspired; I’m always inspired to write. I’m reading Eat, Pray, Love by Elizabeth Gilbert, and her conversational tone urges me to write. I’m also reading Lucy Howard Taylor’s book, Biting Anorexia and her well crafted prose insist I grab a pen. The time I have on my hands; the hours I have to myself, practically taunt me into opening a new Word Document. But, I don’t. I haven’t.
How can I claim the title of a writer if I don’t execute? I wrote all quarter long, editing essays, typing up stories, I even wrote a poem one night. I’m so used to deadlines telling me when and what to write. Those deadlines have been lifted for my break, and all of a sudden the freedom to write leaves my mind a little scattered. Evident in the fact that I’m reading three different books, and a magazine. In the shower, I’ve created so many little snippets of future works, but nothing coherent and complete. My energy hasn’t gone into writing. It’s gone into the paintings I’ve made for friends for Christmas gifts; it’s gone into the 12 handwritten letters I’ve sent, it’s gone into the workouts I get up and do each morning, it’s gone into the books I’m reading. And that’s okay, we all need a respite.
HOWEVER, just to stay on track, I’d like to share some snippets I have written that I’m fond of:
Your teeth as white as notebook paper.
Fill my lungs with ice.
My frozen breath shall lay
heavy on your chest.
Maybe I can save face through the mangled sentences I fabricate.
I’ve been picking apart my skin.
Hoping you would listen.
My flesh begs to be seen.
But I’m not just a body.
The secretion of words.
Do you know what I said?
Can you repeat my secrets?
What thought is locked in my head?
You’re speechless again.
The piano keys remind me of teeth.
Gnawing, grinding chomping on my heart strings.
This emaciated melody isn’t enough.
With that said, here’s my own personal deadline. Before the new year arrives, I WILL write something, completely for myself. Whether it be a short story or a poem, most likely the latter, but I will do it because I don’t like to lie, and this blog is all about life and truth, so thusly. And for the new year, I’ll share it, so be sure to keep reading!
Live, Laugh, Lyrics 