Jul 31, 2010
Jul 27, 2010
I have heard people talk about writer’s block. It sounds self-explanatory enough and has been painfully detailed in many a film. But I am not a writer. I’ve only just begun, so I can’t have it yet, right? I mean, can a woman get pregnant pre-penetration? Not so much.
So, if it ain’t blocked, what is it? Certainly, nothing’s flowing. “God,” the hypochondriac in me thinks, “I hope it’s not broken!”
No, wait! I know this… it’s always the same at the root, right? What’s that line … something leads to anger; anger leads to hate. So on and so forth… FEAR. That’s gotta be it! … “Right?,” she pleads.
Let’s get down to it then. What am I afraid of? Being judged, I suppose. Negatively, to be specific, though they are both different sides of the same coin. Try telling a well-meaning friend to keep it shut after she beams, “it looks like you’ve lost weight. You look great!” It’s more than a bit awkward. I don’t mind awkward though, especially if it keeps me from throwing up my ice cream. Moving on...
The next question I ask is a cliché, as are most things. “What’s the worst that could happen?” I am in the common position of I’m so unknown no one is listening. I’m perfect for the role of the hero who naively usurps power from her got-nothing-to-lose lot in life. Yet, I never show up to audition. (Well, there was once at UCLA with Lady Anne’s soliloquy, but I try to only bring that up to embarrass myself for the greater good of a laugh. “Set down, set down your honorable load.” A load indeed.)
Is then, there another fear, or am I at times just as much a mannequin driven around by irrational emotions as everyone else? Probably both. The funny thing is that I’m also afraid of disappearing, of not being noticed, of not fulfilling my potential as a writer and as a human. Though I am devoutly espoused to critical thinking, my potential is one thing I put in the hands of my intuition.
There is a great difference between escaping from oneself and absorbing oneself into something. The only times I have experienced the latter have been when I was writing or making clothes. Perhaps the act of creation, being truly and deeply connected with something – a thought, a sentence, a painting, an off-the-shoulder shirt proclaiming love of pixels – eclipses our mind chatter, fetters our frontal lobe’s madness. Or maybe that’s just me. Either way, that and my endless passion for words and curiosity of communication have led me to my (not so uncommon) desire to be a writer.
Now, if only I could trust you enough to let you read my thoughts. Or maybe I just need to trust myself enough to know that my thoughts are just like yours. No. I know. I need to trust my something-higher that I’ve got nothing to lose, except for maybe an obstacle or two.
Here, here! (Or as the yogis say, Jai Ma!)