This week did not go as planned. In an attempt to regroup my energy for tomorrow I laid on the couch like a slug, ate copious amounts of frozen bananas covered in raspberry sauce, and zoned out to Julie & Julia. It's one of my comfort films, because (a) I love charming movies set in France, especially taking place during the mid century (b) Meryl Streep is just butter to my soul, and (c) it always inspires me to embrace my true passions while at the same time lifting the pressure that often accompanies such self commitment. Julie's happy place is coming home after a hard day and whipping up chocolate cream pie. Mine is cozying up in bed with a stack of self expression: my journals, my laptop, and a pen. All of which leads to writing.
I love to write. The process of combing over my thoughts, thoughts wiggling to my touch until just the richest of musings rises, rises like cream to the surface. The power of breaking rules in the name of poetry. Never calling it poetry, because fuck people and their labels and their little boxes. This life should be according to my life. It should. Stop. When. I Say. Always writing has been the most romantic, yet prideful of pursuits for me.
I had a girl once who felt the same as me in this regard-- more, never less -- and her heartbreak changed the very tone of my voice. Suddenly the blood was going every which way; sometimes producing pieces of writing I envied myself for composing, and other times rendering me frustrated and limp toward any other subject. The words just would not connect unless I wrote directly to her. Fuck me and my overactive ability to internalize the tiniest details, because I spent years after our parting believing that I could only write well if it was for her. My mermaid; landlocked, unwashed and tightly clothed.
A lot of New Year's messages have been floating around online, with people sharing their goals, or their disapproval of resolution making, or something in between. One such message really got under my skin. It was in general about focusing on the process that leads to an outcome instead of trying to achieve a goal, because trying can so easily be an abstract and worthless action. In many cases it is a non-action. I want to be a better writer, to write the way I felt I used to when communing with my mermaid.
Our relationship deteriorated into a cryptic internet stalking clusterfuck, and now seems to have finally faded into the abyss. Because we remained strained on the line for so long, I got out of the habit of my writing practice. It was painful, and I honestly did not trust myself to write behind closed doors. The temptation to spill my deep crimson guts all over for her to lust over was too much. Every word might unfurl the whispy fingers of her haunting a little more. I knew the compulsion to reopen our very old wound had to stop, so I stopped journaling, blogging, scribbling notes. Not just to her, but to my true love, to support my friends, to figure my daily shit out. I just stopped all together. Ironically, since this cease I have never tried harder to be a better writer.
All of this is to say that I have reclaimed my happy place. Thanks to this wake up call I am not letting my thoughts go stagnant. I am not going to design a new blog or bind a new journal so I can get caught up in the prep work. The goal is not to amass a beautiful collection of empty writing vessels. It is to honor the muse you saw in me. To write as therapy, art, and just for damn fun. To let myself out of this self-imposed prison so I can practice freely without such a narrow destructive purpose.
All of those goals will be accomplished if I just put myself out there and write.