I haven’t been able to write in a while. Everything seems to come out as garbage lately when I do write. Hemmingway said, “even if you write crap, write.” I am paraphrasing here but as much as I love his writing I can’t seem to force myself to write crap. I can’t bring myself to go through the motions the simple act of writing means more to me than that. This is not one of those things that I can “fake it till I make it” situations.
I went down to my “church” my open mike night down at my favorite bookstore last night hoping to get a smidge of inspiration. While there were some good reads and I did feel a little trickle of the old me shining through (you know the me that can write) I came to a realization about myself. Albeit there was some very good and deep poetry I felt as if I as deep as I have gone inside myself to pull out the darkest and ugliest to write about there was still something missing.
Have I not gone deep? Is there some untapped vein inside of me that is still hiding from me? I fear that is exactly why I am not writing because what I have uncovered so far is just deep enough at the same time I feel that there are depths to me to which even I don’t understand yet, and that is scary.
How can I not understand… ME? How can I not see that there is more to me than just what is on the surface? Aren’t I the one that gets upset when others don’t look beyond that to see who and what I really am? How could this be?
I have always considered myself a what you see is what get kind of girl and yet I have been lying to myself all along. Maybe now that this realization has finally presented itself. I will be able to open the flood gates once again and write more sustenance for my soul. I just have to keep calm in the meantime and just breathe. I know it will eventually come to me. I can’t wait to discover the new depths of me…