Writer. A word I now use to describe what I do, when people ask. One of many titles I have carried in my 42 years here on earth. With it have come so many emotional releases I cannot explain. From notebooks to fancy journals, finally words filling pages of a computer screen. Hitting publish and reaching out to that someone that I may never meet. Hoping what I have screamed out to the universe does not fall on deaf ears and silence. The worst things in the world for a writer, to have no one who hears.
In my growth I have learned that I have patterns I follow. I have moods that swing and gravitate like the earth in its ever winding path. I used to write poetry, well I still do. But unlike this form of writing that comes much harder for me. I start and stop, scribble out and replace. Rhythm and mood change and the words tumble into my brain, one after the other. Like a waterfall, yet not as free flowing. A phrase or a word sticks in my brain, followed by more , in no order or without warning. Twenty lines can take me a week to put together in a semblance of sense and sensibility. Each word carefully weighed and reweighed over and over before finally being satisfied.
My mother used to complain because I would read them to her aloud, over the phone, in person. Needing someone else to verify it sounded like I hoped. Still never being satisfied. Going back and reworking it, pulling more of myself out and putting it on paper. When I have finally reached the point that I am satisfied, I go back. To the pages before and pull them out. The paper making a satisfying sound of ripping as I yank my mediocrity from the bindings. Symbolizing that I wasn’t good enough, wasn’t artistic enough. Wasn’t enough, period. Questioned why I did that, why I didn’t just leave it alone. Never making anyone understand in those failures I show my failures. I can never be satisfied. Even months later when I go back I still tweak and twist. My mind finding the childish words as irritating and painful. I put the notebook away. It may not come back for months, or it may be a day. Until that phrase or word makes its presence known and I am once again forced to perfect it with others. Weaving it into prose that stirs the heart, twists the emotions and brings forth beauty. Beauty from the ashes of my failure and torment.