“There is nothing to writing. All you do is sit down at a typewriter and bleed.”
I never planned to own a writing blog. While I’ve always respected the medium and considered it a legitimate source for creativity, advice, and what have you, it never seemed the right kind of outlet for me. There were so many excuses to use at my disposal: What can I write that someone else hasn’t already put into words? What can I possibly write here, under public scrutiny, without raising a few eyebrows? What responsibility do I have to myself to write how life, in the now and in retrospect, comes?–what responsibility do I keep for anyone else I may write about? Nonfiction is boring, I’d say. My life is too boring to read about, I’d say even more. Perhaps I’d say most often: why do I need to write on a public forum—I can write anywhere I’d like. Private or public, it shouldn’t matter.
But I haven’t been writing. I’ve not written a thing of my own creation in a long, long time. I occasionally dabble in the roleplay scene (which, for reference’s sake, can at its most basic be described as collaborative fanfiction)–but motivation for even that, I find, has been slipping away. They say “write what you know.” They say authors put a little bit of them inside of every piece they write.
And it’s taken me a long time to realize why I’ve had such a hard time writing:
I barely even know myself.
Everyone has their problems, the past issues, flaws, and traumas they’ve internalized and remained content to lock away. For many there comes a time to let what has been festering and ignored loose—it’s a time for growth: a brackish, sharp, painful growth where joints and bones of the heart set themselves right again. But for myself, the former is all it’s ever been. My tolerance for pain has its dial set at the minimum, because I’ve refused to look back and look in. I’ve not wanted to acknowledge my demons and my faults, nor have I thought to entertain the ifs and whens.
Like a proverbial bloodletting, this blog is meant to provide the catharsis I’ve never before considered. Where it leads, I’ve yet to find a clue. But I’ve always learned life the hard way. I’ve learned by doing in the now, on the wing. I suppose, then, it’s not entirely true that I don’t know myself.
But I’m not writing to write what I know.
I’m writing to discover.