Sometimes when I write it seems like the words that pour out of me come out of nowhere. I suspect other writers know exactly what I'm talking about. It usually is because somebody needs to hear the very words that are pouring forth from unknown depths, even if that somebody is a future version of ourselves.
The words in the rest of this post are contained on a sheet I found tucked away in a journal from last year, and it's exactly how I've been feeling about blogging for a couple of months now. The date at the top says it's from April 2011.
I sit, coffee nearby, pen in hand, staring at the enemy. how long do I have to stare to gain enough courage to conquer?
I wonder how long it's been since I made my last real attempt. Months, at least. Wait -- months? I sigh. I'm more of a coward than I thought.
I have let the idea of writing turn me into a fearful person. But why, you ask, should a blank piece of paper terrify anyone?
Writing is the great and powerful thing that the Wizard of Oz tried to be. It forces you to see truths, to admit them. It brings to light emotions you've fought so hard to hide. Sometimes it even makes you understand what you don't think you are ready or willing to understand. It can be brutal, my friend, leaving yourself with reopened wounds and forcing yourself to seek healing.
And that blank piece of paper, the one that lies there looking harmless and innocent, has a terrible hunger. It thirsts for those emotions, those realizations, the confessions. It feeds off of every single bit of ink put into it. It craves those writing frenzies. It taunts you to give it your best and your worst, your everything. It wants your secrets, your truths, your thoughts, your emotions, your life. It will stare you down until it gets what it wants.
And the pressure of writing it heavy, crushing at times. Think of all of those well-known writers you've encountered. How graceful and eloquent they seem. They are true masters of writing who tell the paper what is going to be written there, who have not let that hunger overtake them. They have conquered the enemy. The words they have written are accepted, considered, appreciated. They are thought-provoking, captivating words. They are often profound to some degree. My words are nowhere near the masters'. Mine sink down, down, lost in the abyss of words that fall short of the magic those masters' words held.
And so I sit, coffee in hand, pen in hand, staring at the enemy. And I sigh, put my pen down, and let the blank paper defeat me again.
