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Just want to talk


Hello there. I know, this whole bit is a bit strange. But for once, I just want to shoot from the hip. No free write, no focused topic. Just talk. Admittedly I often feel this way, but keep myself from saying a thing because I don’t have a point of focus. The times I make free writes it usually starts with random thoughts, but I often know where I want to go. Now…it’s kind of like those weird drawings I’ll sometimes do, where I have no idea what I’m making, and the entire point is to trust that something inside me knows what I’m doing. Most of the time it ends up being for little more reason than the joy of being able to do it. 

These days I’m feeling less bound up than I used to, and yet the old habits make it difficult to do this as easily as I’d like. Still, it’s  easier now, and that’s progress I’ll happily take. It’s a weird feeling, knowing that the walls are coming down, I’m more fully inhabiting the life I’ve been given, and the pupating is almost over. I’d always thought I would burst out of my cocoon violently, yet that hasn’t been the case at all. Heh, I shouldn’t be surprised, considering I normally don’t flourish in harsh conditions. I have no idea what form this change is going to take. But for once, I’m more curious than scared. And I am so grateful to feel this way. 

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No more Ms. Mousian

Aaaand…I wasn’t satisfied with the free write, so here I am again. What can I say? When my writer side is awakened, not even a horse dose of Ambien can put it back to bed. I gotta wear this sucker out.

Doing this blog has, like I’ve mentioned repeatedly in my “voice memo thingies”, simply been an exercise in pushing the boundaries of what makes me comfortable. Adopting the title of “writer” is not something that has come easily. I rejected it for so very long because it seemed like it came with a lifestyle that wasn’t “naturally” mine, and one I was completely unwilling to take. Not to mention, it was something that was pushed on me at a very early age, and all my life I have resisted easy classification. I’d see my peers happily take on such limiting titles as “The Brain”, “The Jock”, “The Artist”, and I wanted absolutely no part of it. To me, it felt like taking one on would have a serious impact on what I would likely focus my attention on. If I was to take on a title, it was going to be one of my own choosing.

If you’re wondering, “What is this ‘writer lifestyle’ she was so scared of?” It was the lifestyle of a writer who was a compulsive composer, a slave to the written word, and mostly, one who shares his or her thoughts and passions easily- which I believed was the only writer to be. For a time it was very easy to hide my inner self behind pretty words or flowery sentences. But passion? That odd magnetism that drew pencils to my fingers and blank pages to my lap? I didn’t have what it took to reveal mine. Mine had to be protected from those invested in changing me into their ideal person. I was a mouse, overly concerned for my survival, when all the while I was safe in a cage, and everything I needed was in reach. I couldn’t risk anything, or at least, would only make the smallest risks, the only things my tiny mouse heart could bear.

And I’m tired of it. I’m tired of acting like a mouse, consumed by passion on the inside, but devoid of all signs of it on the outside. I’m tired of going with the thoughts that say, essentially, that there is no point in my expression. It’s like saying, “There’s no point to crying, because you’ve shed tears before”. “There’s no point to laughter, because you’ve filled a room with laughter before.” Or, “Others have wept and laughed better than you”. I want the “wow, I did that”. The one that only comes after the “wow, I can’t believe I did that”. This is part of that step.

Free writes

Change in feelings

Free write

There was a time I would have said there was no give for the feeling of being this way, in love with being alive. Not for any save those who were born of this magic. Now, more and more, I am finding that changing. I have what it takes to let those who want to feel it, feel it, if they want to. Is this my motivator? Is this what keeps my fingers clacking against the keys day in and day out, even on those days when I am so uncertain of what I am doing? It can’t be about anything else, I don’t think. I’ve tried it all. I’ve tried obligation. I tried the expectations of others. I tried experimentation. I even tried doing it because I could. But inevitably it made progress require so much force out of me that I grew to hate it. I thought I hated writing. It seemed so slippery, something I needed all my will to do.

But within, and through all the years of forcing it, it was there. It always has, and, I suspect always will be. I am possessed of a love for expression, a love so strong it terrifies me and keeps me awake nights, breathless as I realize how much of a hold it has on me. And I love that feeling. Yet I admit it did isolate me. Only here and there in my life have I seen others gripped so strongly by this love. But now, I see we all can be. We’re just afraid of saying so, for some reason. I don’t want to be afraid anymore. I don’t know, frankly, if I’ll ever achieve the fearlessness I wish to have. But I do know I don’t want to let it stop me. I’ve been able to step over it before, and I can do it again. And again. And again. I can touch, just as I have been touched. I want to give others the love that the expressions of others have given to me. Because it’s so utterly wonderful.