Non-Required Reading
When Writer's Block no longer holds back the floodwater
I’ve been toying with the idea of writing a book [more seriously] as of late. This was originally prompted by a few things. My bestie — and one of the most talented writers I know — telling me he is making progress on his own novel, for one. Overhauling my life both physically and mentally has also given me a push. I think more than anything, though, it’s been the feeling free enough to open my mouth (write). I can’t remember the last time I was in an environment where I not only felt like I didn’t have to censor myself, but was free to write about whatever I wanted without repercussions.
As I just typed “repercussions,” however, I felt that pang of hesitation — one filled with guilt and anxiety, borne out of all of the scenarios I’ve dreamed up of what may happen if I do open my mouth. I’ve always chalked this up to my tendency to take the “higher road.” The idea of hurting other people in my life (and even those no longer in my life) with my writing is gut-wrenching. I know very well that if I write anything worth publishing, it will inevitably include writing that does just that.
I realized last night, however, that it’s so much more than this anxiety.
I had crawled into bed to submerge myself in my new favorite pastime: listening to jazz and reading. I’ve been drowning in Cleopatra and Frankenstein by Coco Mellors, and by that I mean I’ve become completely enamored with this piece of contemporary fiction that transports me to a different world every evening. I tend to become more flighty and existential after sunset, so the combination of this new pastime and the said novel led me to draw some valuable conclusions.
In short, I still take issue with letting other people know how I see things—anything, really. Beautiful passages in pieces of fiction. The sound of trains passing through the city on warm nights. The way blades of grass direct themselves toward sunlight.
I’ve had some not-so-savory experiences as of late with people who became privy to what life looks like through my lens. The outcomes have varied, but I think the one I still resent the most involves a person who stole my lens and tried to make it their own. It’s not the first time it’s happened, but it never feels good.
Someone far wiser reminded me that, in the end, anything I create for public consumption is no longer my own. This is to say that it’s subject to individual interpretation, which is out of my control. If this is the case, I think that it may be more beneficial to focus on what I can control, which is myself — the only one who can really mark the beginning of anything and everything.
Would it be so bad to finally write about what’s happened? No one says you have to read it.
