The ideal of transparency and maintaining connection has been a high one to reach for me in the past weeks of absence. I realize that I don’t write when I feel really bad. I have no translation for “really”, except to double it “really, really” (adjective). The emphasis and proper weight of my issues and emotions allude me especially in the duration of my introspections.
Are not writers keen in their observations and astute in their literary judgements? I am a writer. I can be dull, dumb and depressed in my observations and judgements. I must not be a writer. Ergo, weeks of no-writing.
I discovered that it takes awhile for thoughts, humor, wisdom, a point of view to appear through writing. My personal self needs some privacy in order to feel like she can bare the world her tender breasts as beauty and as nourishment. The vehicle of blogging is unrealistic in its demands for multiple updates and posts. Time is quickened to a pace far faster than good writing can adhere with any consideration. I tried to relieve myself of this pressure by rationalizing how I could start multiple writing projects beyond the regular posts in the blog.
I could take on
the Korean American novel of the 21st century,
a businees plan for my cookie factory;
a grant proposal to keep the california libraries open;
a love letter to the older man who made
a fool of himself for romantic chase
and the young girl in her twenties who let him;
a love letter to the young woman in her twenties
who made a fool of herself for romantic chase
and the older man who let her
a letter to the inconsolable child
the depressed odd teen
the lost soul determined to wander
these letters I would string into beautiful
sounds from the head, heart and feet
a chorus I could sing for
food and shelter
keep the maternal worries away
from the writing which has to be free
in her will to play,
the best from the rest.
But as much as I thought it unsatisfactory to write about the self as subject, I could not trick myself into feigning interest in the overculture or in the stories that surround me in the lives of others. Am I starting on the greatest love affair of my life or running at the shallowest orephous in the body-the navel? It’s too early to judge, and too facile to stop either way. The effort to write continuously is a decision I made about the time I sensed that I was not very well suited for corporate culture, the business world, tenured eschalons of academia, the stage or the convent.
I am still a literary ugly duckling for now….