Thoughts on the Writing Process, 2
I’m home. Trying to practice stillness. Doing my best to believe in hope, breathe freely, stay happy. My body finally figured out what time it is (yay)! I spent yesterday opening up my manuscript again, reminding myself that yes, bing, you’re a writer first, don’t fear it. It doesn’t matter how long I’ve called myself an artist- i’ll still be insecure, afraid; creatively blocked far too often than I would like. This book has taken me so long to complete. I know I’m hard on myself, but this writing process is a labor of love, and I want every word to be nurtured, crafted, perfected. I’m scared. Scared that this will be a vital piece of me that people can own and take with them, and I’m nervous they won’t like it, won’t like me. I talked with Ishle yesterday, asked her if this was normal. She reassured me that yes, every artist goes through it, that I was okay, that I am where I’m supposed to be, and please, keep going.
Sometimes I wish I wasn’t so open, so transparent. I’m ruled by emotion, by heart, and often I wish I was more grounded and practical in my writing. I look at all these testaments of vulnerability and sometimes get annoyed at myself for being this way. But then again, this is me, all of me, and my truths are all I can offer. Broken sometimes, hopeful in others, dreaming and practicing love always.
Some poems I’ve written out of confusion, others when I feel confident, and some when heartbroken. And then there are those poems that have yet to be written, those poems that will document how heartbroken I feel when the world disappoints me. For some reason, I can’t bring myself to write it yet, those moments of anger when schools shut down and turn its back on students I’ve seen so much power and awareness in. When fifty bullets are fired, and justice abandons a woman who lost the man she was supposed to marry. When Sheila tells me how angry she is that her family is still living in a trailer home because no one has come back to save New Orleans.
These truths. I am aspiring to write them with enough beauty to bring them justice.
Submerge, Bing. Surrender to the process. You’re a writer first, allow yourself to give in to wherever inspiration may take you.
Love.
ruby, you inspire me.you and the rest of ill-literacy manage to speak these truths about life but still maintain relatable and apart of the process about which you speak. i can’t wait until you finish your book.
thank you for giving me a feminine voice that isn’t too much to the left or the right, but rides the middle with such a delicate* balance.
* and i mean delicate in a good way.