On Writing

Write. It is right. It's your right. With all your might. Write.

"It's harder to be friends than lovers
And you shouldn't try to mix the two
Cuz if you do it and you're still unhappy
Then you know that the problem is you."

--Liz Phair

I think I'm lonely. I am getting pushy with possible friends. I want people to like me. I'm out of my element, fishing for compromise. "Please be my friend, I'm just so needy!" Not a good place from which to make friends.

But it's true. I need someone. A good guy friend to hang out with. Somebody who used to drink but doesn't anymore (just to make it easier for the both of us). Or some writer friends, a club that meets weekly and just chats about this and that. Maybe over a snack or tea?

I think what's really going on here is that I'm feeling sorry for myself rather than do the writing. I'm procrastinating writing like I think I want to write by playing the woe is me game. And I'm good at it-- got a triple word score on my last turn. King me.

There are so many things holding me back-- fears that include looking stupid, not being able to say what I'm trying to say, mold-- it's nasty stuff, y'know. I fear success. I don't want to lose my freedom of lifestyle to the paparazzi machine. But whatever-- cross that bridge when the traffic cop waves you through...

Oh blessed Hell-- I want to sit down and start writing and not stop until I've finished saying what I want to say! Is that too much to ask? Can't I just start rollicking through the verbiage and create some waves to buck my life into motion? Isn't it just a matter of writing for writing's sake and the rest falls into place?

I want a writer's life. I want freedom to create worlds and commemorate the past. I want to push myself to type and just get it all out, to not worry about the editor-- to spit in the editor's hair so that he leaves me alone while he goes to wash himself.

I want to struggle to make sense of myself and my life. I want to read about things that are affecting me. I want to write my story of a bipolar life. I want to remember the details of my psychotic episodes.

But I want help, too. I want people in my life. I want friends. I want to know that I can put out some ideas and that I'll hear back whether they fly or not. Now there's a pie in the sky idea-- friends that can fly. I want that!

There's no set direction here tonight, just that I am trying to write, and I'm trying to do it without holding back. I feel like I've got the reins firmly in hand, and that I might need to let them go and see where this little horse and pony show will take me...

There are those out there that I respect, and I know them. I've met them. Some of them. I seek their approval, their accolades. I need stroking. Why is this? Because I don't listen to myself. At least, not when I'm telling myself I'm good. I more readily will point out my faults than to compliment myself. So I'm needy for compliments. Because I'm self-conscious and lack confidence.

I'm most comfortable with my humor. A nod to my father for this skill. We grew up laughing and making each other laugh. That's a great gift. Greater than gadgets or the right clothing. We're skilled with rapier sense of humor. Priceless.

So there's more, of course. So much more. But enough for now. It's time I should break for dinner. Nourish the belly, nourish the soul.

Or something like that.