Leave it to my friends, the poets from the beat movement, to distillize my thoughts in so few words.
This time it was Charles Bukowski who wrote the words that picked me up and out of my funk - at least getting my pencil to move when I thought it was stuck in frozen mod podge. Perhaps we ought to name him an Honorary Literary Granny. I can see him scoff (and smile) at that thought.
Here's what happened earlier:
I realized something disturbing today as I sat down to write, to brainstorm, to let whatever was meant to fall on the page to fall on the page.
It was like knocking over a glass of chocolate milk, the first words in my writing stumble went every which way. I wrote these words:
Just this afternoon I was speaking to
my dear friend about writing styles,
comparing one genius writer to another.
The first genius writer was able but
the second genius writer was more
deeply and profoundly able.
The second writer didn’t turn when the
doors marked “ouch” opened.
The first writer held tight to the banister, afraid to see what happened when he pushed himself into the darkness.
The second writer relished the darkness and poked about it with glee, no matter how hot the fire got or how tempting it felt to turn around before he got to his destination.
That was when I realized how much I have in common with the first writer, the timid one. How much I have in common with the one who doesn't leap, the one who doesn't complete his open heart surgery with words.
He stops, takes the pulse, gets a diagnosis, does all the pre-surgical work but when it comes time for the surgery he goes to sleep under the anesthesia yet never has the surgery.
Let me personalize that.
Perhaps you are like me and need to personalize it, too.
I realized how much I have in common with the first writer, the timid one. I am the one who doesn't leap, the one who doesn't complete her open heart surgery with words.
I stop, take the pulse, get a diagnosis, do all the pre-surgical work but when it comes time for the surgery I fall asleep via the anesthesia but I never actually have the surgery.
This is especially painful to me, personally, when I realize my mission lately of bringing as many Literary Grannies back into the minds of people who either forgot them or never knew them at all. I rant and shake my fist, but I have all along been denying my space in a literary lineage.
I must confess I am not as good with giving my creative projects the wings they deserve. Instead, many of them sit, unread, unfelt, undigested by the very people who may be serve the most from my projects’ existence.
Ouch.
It hurts to confess that, yet I know I must face it.
The door marked “Ouch” is open. I am facing it.
This week I will face the "door marked ouch" and continue to face it and write more about it here, publicly, in hopes knowing you are out there holding me accountable for continuing and completing this project, the better I will do at showing up.
That helps me to smile, knowing a long trail of writers leading up to me are encouraging me and hopefully a long trail of writers behind me are encouraging me, too.
As Charles Bukowski said, “writing about a writer's block is better than not writing at all”
I'll be back tomorrow - if not sooner -
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