I love writing. I love an attempt at a wise consideration and overhaul of reality as I believe it to be. Through the quivering of my unsure pen I adore the pace and flow of some body of a thought formulated in a brain replete with half-botched ideas and an aching heart of disappointment at not being able to complete or fully execute such organic thoughts that my hyperactive senses clutch at yet slowly but surely sadly let seep out of those very self-same pores through which they first long ago were desperately inhaled.
The fear of my own sensation of my own inadequacy, or that of another’s quip at what they conceive as inadequacy.
Which has hindered me most?
As Sylvia Plath claimed: ‘The worst enemy to creativity is self-doubt’.
On caterpillar bench: an attempt to spurn – at least quell – the ungracious yet abundant and reproductive vocabulary of being ‘stuck’, ‘lost’, and/or ‘drowning’. Is there not more complexity to my character? Why is it that when I find myself face to face with a blank piece of dauntingly white paper this melodrama returns irretrievably and incessantly?
On beginning this quest of making my musings public, I have made some important changes to my writing and, most of all, my style.
Before, I fell into these dire, imminent, catastrophic wailings on how I felt I was sinking deeper into a one-way well, never to see the glistening light of day again. Here, I try and temper, tame these glamorous yet intensely self-destructive, depression-inducing and self-perpetuating, self-centred, self-indulgent outbursts. Although this is often how I might feel, when pen nears paper it flurries round in a continuum and my brain whirrs for the most outrageous synonyms and adjectives.
Although incredibly unsure as to what direction my writing is pointing me, the worth of my voice, the immature shakiness of my expression and creativity, without it I know I am a vessel of the being nature intended to create.