I read a couple of years ago that poetry is more about the will to write rather than the inspiration that births it. This quote became my lifeline as I decided that I would never let “inspiration” become my excuse. Inspiration can come from the most mundane things and it was my mission to be inspired. Inspiration is choice. I chose that day to be inspired.
But then, jump to present day reality and I realise that while I continue to choose to be inspired by everything I encounter, I’ve also allowed other things to become my excuse. I’m too busy. I’m too tired. Life’s sucks. Darn.
Somehow, I feel like I may be losing my art and my only sanctuary. Why can’t I write? Why can’t I fill the blank pages that I ought to? What is stopping me?
The sad answer is that … it is none other than myself.
Somewhere along the line, I forgot why I even started writing. I forgot that it was more than blogs and magazine submissions. My writing did not start as a performance to be admired, to be praised, to be appreciated…
No, writing was simply fun. It was what got me through hard days and back then, I didn’t care if anyone would read my poetry or my stories or whether any of it made sense. I did not care to be politically correct, factually correct or any other kind of correct!
Last week, I found a journal entry from early this year. As I read what I myself wrote, I began reflect on where I stand as a writer and why I even write at all.
Writing has become a chore these days. It’s sad. But I can’t deny it. There used to be a time when all I could do was spit my emotion out on paper, just for the love of it. It used to be easy. No one could say I wasn’t poetic enough or I had too many adjectives in my poems. I just wrote what I wanted because writing was fun. That was before blogging goals and Facebook updates, before Instagram accounts, before people could tell me that I shouldn’t say I want to screw it all.
I just want to let it all go.
It’s usually hard for me to be completely honest and vulnerable on public platforms… like blogs or social media. It’s hard to try to keep up with the virtual image I created for myself. Honesty just doesn’t go along with virtual images. But once in a while, I rant.
I rant because I need to let off steam. I also rant because I don’t want to ever keep up with any image. I am my own weaknesses and my demons are just what they are. If I doubt myself as a writer, I should not be afraid to say so. This is the only way I will grow.
Honesty. Desperation. Hunger.
I am hungry for growth. Perhaps my overthinking and self-reflection will do me good. Maybe, I will grow.
For now, I’m just laying it out. I am still on my own journey.