Writing about not
Writing
I haven’t written for a while. A long while. Well, I can
give the excuses: no time, no inspiration, no head and emotional space, too
tired…I can go on. The real reason is I don’t know. Or perhaps to be more
honest I am not sure, but I suspect one or two things. For example, does the enormity
of writing a book daunt me? Well, yes. Does the idea of failure relating to
that scare me? I must also say yes. How about the idea of exposing myself to an
audience that might less than love me for it? Christ, yes! Ok, so this begins
to be familiar. Fear of failure has driven me for as long as I can remember. But,
looking a little deeper I realise that it is not fear of failure itself that
scares me, but the attached disapproval, the collateral rejection that
accompanies failure.
And where does that leave me then? Up to now it left me
writing-less. It deprived me from the therapeutic enjoyment of sorting my
psyche on paper. The meditative trance that I normally fall into when I write
has eluded me. I resent that. I like writing. I like the head seclusion, the
pinprick focus that flows the words on paper, just like a river inexorably
flows leaves and logs and what may, on its waters. I revel in the insights I
get when the words appear on the page as if by magic. I love the insights, such
as the fact that when I am in flow it is not me that is writing but a power
well beyond me. Those are the times I write well. The times I look for clever
words and turn of phrase? Those are the times that I try to be a writer, the
times I write clumsily. Those are the times that I, me, get in the way of the
flowing words coming through me.
So, here is a bit of a leap: If the times I write well are
not due to me, then what business do I have about worrying what people might
think?
Will this realisation set the stemmed words free?
How do I get out of the way of me?
