Day 329: As a Writer, the Early Years

I have been going through old files today and came about a bunch of my old writings. Before I was a blogger, I wrote stories and before that, bad poetry. In fact, I remember an old blue notebook filled with romantic, nonsensical ramblings about trees, clouds and love. Coming from a twelve-year-old I couldn’t have had much to say on the subject of love, or anything else for that matter. My later writings definitely improved, though all have a decidedly lonely, poor me, tone to them. So I decided given that I am likely as happy now as I will ever be, that it is time to feed them to the world and let them go. So with no further ado, I present to you: me, in writing.

Isolation (2000)

I will not tell you what it is like to be me.

I will not tell you what it is like to be strong.

I will not betray my vulnerability and neediness and the soft, human truth of my spirit to any of you. I fought my demons and faced the truth, but not for the entertainment of those now around me.

I will not explain to you my struggles.

I will not explain to you my reasons.

I will not open myself up to your judgmental ears and scornful words. I have lived my life and know my failings, they are mine alone and not to be shared as an item of malicious gossip among you, who know me least.

I will not ask of you to forgive.

I will not ask of you to understand.

I will not wait for the compassion of my fellow man for those things which I have done and said in the weaker moments of my life. I did as I believed, and cannot merely now go back to satisfy your selfish curiosity.

I will not expect you to offer compassion.

I will not expect you to offer solace.

I will not let you in to that place in my soul which I keep for myself, to tempt me with your empty smiles and false words. I am not yours to ponder, fix, discuss, comprehend, befriend, hate, or forgive.

I will not reveal my soul to you.

I will not sound my voice to you.

I will not expose my heart to the sharpness of your cruel arrows of hypocrisy and scorn. I live behind a wall of my own making, an impenetrable shield I will not lower for you who sit here in the smugness of your judgment day.

Untitled (date unknown)

Ame wants out

But there is no door.

Once entered, forever confined to an

Ever-shifting room, absent of solid ground;

Transparent walls make an exhibit of

Her shattered peace.

Solace (2002)

Solace, honor, dignity, respect.

Found where? On death there is no solace for the living.

I mourn with dignity, my tribute

Within the respect I exhibit, for the

Choice of death.

How to be a Writer (1994)

Clearly in some sort of Hemingway phase and fortunately left unfinished.

First, you have to get yourself born. So pick out a couple of nice people and get into that uterus. Next thing, grow up in a semi-stable household as a semi-unhappy child. Then, the key to all successful writers, is of course DIVORCE. It is absolutely imperative that your parents be divorced before puberty takes root and really sets in. This is the time for every would-be writer to really experiment and to get in touch with his or her adventurous side. In other words, you should aspire to drive your Mother to the edge with your adolescent angst. Lie unendingly, and of course sneak off with your “not a good role model” friends.

It is helpful, after this hellion phase to find a nice little niche for yourself in your newly extended (enter stepparents and siblings) family. Adjust, laugh, even enjoy yourself, but you must always be aware that you are in search of some sort of elusive fulfillment you’ve yet to attain. Insecurity is also a staple of any serious writer and it should be accompanied by a somewhat degenerated self-esteem. At this point you need to begin to search out what it is that you want out of life. School seems to be the main outlet for this cycle of events; classes range from drama, to French, to journalism. All in a vain attempt to grasp the untouchable. The writer comes from within, not from education. So while school is nice, it is the unhappy, overwrought, emotional catastrophe that is your life that will really provide the chops . . .