Writing has been, more than anything in the world - more than photography is now, my greatest artistic passion in life. For months I was sitting in a well of writer's block, feeling miserable at my core that maybe I had lost it; maybe I'm not good enough anymore and I just can't fucking do it. I've hated what I've written; it all seems contrived and boring and sub-par, and I'm fairly certain I know where my problem was stemming from - it wasn't necessarily that I had lost it, it was just what I was writing, as opposed to that which I couldn't figure out I could.
But for four pages, in the messy tone of graphite, I just wrote; and the result was my heart and soul and mind, splashed onto the page in metaphors and with no direct course, just like the way I speak and feel, hiding nothing, and it has been so long I have felt this proud to open myself. And I know I haven't lost it. And I know it is inside of me, even if it takes patience and tears and random inspiration to find it.
I love the way pencil will inevitably smear as I'm writing, or as I put weight on the next page and the gray outlines of other words impose themselves over everything they touch. Because of the weird way I hold my pencil - I give my writing character. I think I'm going to swear off pen.
I'm still glowing, and it's keeping me awake. Despite the fact I'll, as always, be exhausted at work tomorrow, it was worth it to have that freedom and expression and to spit in the face of self-doubt once and for all.
What a way to start the New Year.
Labels: art, creativity, expression, insomnia, pride, triumph, writing