August 24, 2011

I used to write prolifically.  It was a way for me to sort out my thoughts, to temper my often overwhelming depression.  I’ve never been a strong conversationalist, so it was also a way to communicate that did not leave me flustered and dissatisfied.  The process was organic, so even while I struggled it tended to flow. . .  Tentatively I am beginning once more.  I’ve asked myself why it has been so difficult to talk myself into writing for so long.  There are things I wish to express to myself and others that I simply cannot wrap my tongue around.  But still my fingers faltered.  I know that in the height of my blatherings there were several people who rather enjoyed what I was doing.  I know I did, even if it was self-indulgent nonsense.  But one person, who I cared about (and still do) told me once that my work was melodramatic.  Which it was in all honesty.  But at the time it was like a punch to the throat.  I can take critism over the quality, but such distain?  If a friend who knew me thought so little of it, what would complete strangers think?  So, being a young fool lacking any confidence, my little heart broken, I set down my pencils and avoided the keyboard.  (Just as I had my ink and paintbrushes.)  I tried to transfer my creativity into a new medium: food.  It was satisfying for a while, but there is only so much soul one can express in a turnip.  Now that I am left without an outlet, and I feel the first glimmers of what I imagine will be another lovely ride on what I like to call “the sad bastard” I have decided to try again and to hell with the critics.  I can publish these or not.  It’s for me, and you can take it or leave it.  So, enjoy or not, it is your decision.


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