Nov 03 2009
Letting go
There is something simultaneously freeing and terrifying about sending your writing out into the world. I have been writing since I was about 13. I’ve filled notebook after notebook, I have folders on my computer full of poems. I have written and deleted more than some people I know have written in their lifetimes. But to write something and put it out there where other people can see it, where they can hate it or criticize it or . . . just completely ignore it, fills me with utter panic.
My instincts tell me to hold back, to not put the truth on the page, to guard myself and my feelings against public scrutiny. I know that good writing is raw, is open, puts everything out there, but I just can’t make myself do it. So instead I try to be cute and clever, witty. None of that is real. None of that is what I would want to read. But who I really am? Why would anyone want to read that either?
So, there’s truth. I am alone, I am lost. I have trouble catching my breath. I am married and glad that I am. I am in love. But I know that there’s more to life. I am looking for answers, looking for meaning and purpose. My whole life I’ve been the good girl, the one who did everything right, did everything well, but nothing has ever been easy for me. I have never been able or willing to show anyone who I really was. I want to say it, I want to write about it, but I don’t even know who it is anymore. I am sad, very sad, and I don’t know how else to say it.
There it is, the first bit of truth I’ve said in a long time. If I don’t look at it, if I don’t re-read it before I publish it, maybe I’ll be able to put it out there.
