Here’s Part I.
Writing has never come easy for me. Actually, that’s not true. Publishing has never come easy.
However, words are my oldest and dearest friends. It’s not a matter of sitting down and writing in a journal. That I’ve done since reading Harriet the Spy in grade school. Writing has always been my shelter in a storm.
But it’s like being a master baker: the cake is perfect, flawless, everyone coos over it — but I only see the tiny smudge right at the base. Or the chocolate isn’t sweet enough. Or the slightly off-kilter tiers drive me insane.
Getting words out of my head? Not so difficult. Getting them to the world? A bit of a bitch.
I have boxes of journals filled with words written over 3 decades that I was sorely tempted to throw into a bonfire this spring. I have reams of letters, poetry and essays. In fact, the title and many new vignettes of The Reluctant Tarot Reader came from a long-forgotten document that languished in my Writings folder.
Innumerable books give tips on how to be a good writer. How to be disciplined. How to write a book.
My advice? Just write. And when you’re sick of writing, stop. And when you’re not, begin. Ad nauseam.
I am about the least disciplined writer you can imagine. I don’t have a set schedule or a certain word count per sitdown. Months can go by before I write in my journal — indeed, I am forgetting about this thing called handwriting — and I’m lucky if 2 blog posts get done per week.
But once a project grips me? Forgettaboutit. I’m done. The words will nudge and nudge until I finally get them out. They literally flood my brain in sleep and waking life until my eyes actually see them on paper or screen.
This isn’t discipline. More like possession. Similar to a pimple right in the depth of your ear. You just can’t wait until it pops because it hurts so damn much.
Granted, I know a little bit about discipline as I have both an MA & BA in English (kind of useless degrees but fun to throw around). I sat in more creative writing classes than I care to remember. I’ve studied with great minds at Bread Loaf School of English & CUNY. I’ve written scores of papers and dreaded every one.
Writing has been my refuge and my torment. If I tell people, I’m a writer, they’ll normally ask: what do you write?
The quick answer is: non-fiction.
The true answer? Poetry to ex-lovers. Essays that try to make sense of this world. Writings on how I am the reluctant Tarot reader. Angry letters to my father. Prayer in the form of questions. Lists of gratitude. Channeling voices that roam this inner landscape of mine. The voices of lost women.
None of it is easy, yet it is the truest path to freedom.
What usually trips me up is the presumed audience. My words aren’t good enough — or too flowery and unreal. Kind of like channeling all that bad poetry that flew around my hoity-toity English seminars (and truly, there’s nothing worse than a bunch of competitive English majors crammed around a writing table, vying for the prof’s blessing.)
If I can stay focused and write as if I’m speaking to myself — as a Gemini, this is easy with my 1,000 personalities — then the writing flows. It’s actually pleasurable. It even gives chills once in a blue. That’s when I see that these words are meant to be born; that they have been waiting to emerge into the world to stretch and breathe. To teach. To live beyond this body.
And the more I do this writing thing, the more I see that it is similar to healing. That it is healing. Allowing the greater wisdom to be expressed through my particular verve. To realize that yes, this is asking for expression now — because who knows who I’ll be next?
Kudos if you are a writer. It’s one of the most courageous things you can do.
