And by changes, I mean pain.
We often look at our writing as a way to make a living, tell a story, or at its basic level, to simply communicate. Many times the words that reach the page are there for someone else to read, interpret, and perhaps even decode if we choose to let own personal penmanship run wild. But writing doesn’t have to be for an audience. In fact some of the most precious and intimate writing we may pen in a lifetime may be for no one else’s eyes but our own. Each of us can be our own market, our own audience, and what’s more, let’s send that monster on a permanent vacation.
And by monster, I mean that evil inner critic we all possess.
I’ll admit that the last couple of months have not been filled with my best writing. In fact the last two months of 2007 were ones where my fingers didn’t even meet the keyboard of my MacBook, nor was the spine of my journal even cracked open to proclaim something as simple as “I’m exhausted and utterly spent.” However, in entered 2008 and as the saying goes “I was sick and tired of being sick and tired” and decided to do something about it.
And by it, I mean the emotions of the divorce in which I am currently in the thick.
I’d spent time thinking and overanalyzing but I hadn’t spent much time letting go. But one day I picked up a pen again and just let it all go. What I was writing didn’t make much sense, didn’t look particularly pretty, or possess any sort of literary zest. What it did do, however, was finally help me sort through the mixed bag of feelings I had been carrying around aimlessly. I allowed myself to be raw and honest as I met the page; it didn’t matter because my words weren’t intended for anyone but me and let me tell you, there is a lot of power in that.
And by that, I mean reclaiming the importance of my writing.
So I continue to write, meeting all that may be ahead with all life’s changes.
And by changes, I mean new beginnings.