It's back--that feeling of gut-clenching chest-heating desire to write. But I'm finding the poems that push themselves through brainspiritmindheart out my fingers via pencil onto scraps of paper are myself wanting to be larger than life, wanting, eventually, strangers to sift through my old journals looking for early signs of genius--to end up anthologized for unwilling college freshmen. This impulse disappoints me, seems to flaunt its uselessness for anything but drawing attention to myself. Why bother? Why put it in front of anyone else's eyes? That is how it felt this morning.
Yet. I want to write. Better have it out with myself. Something wants to be born. Maybe it has been waiting for some time.
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2 comments:
I know the feeling. But giving what one might call "advice" to someone older and wiser (older not by much but wiser by a lifetime) seems, for the lack of a better word, just wrong. All I can say, though, is just write sister. Sir Philip Sidney said it better than I ever could:
Biting my truant pen, beating myself for spite,
"Fool!" said my Muse to me, "Look in thy heart, and write!"
Good luck, Sam. :) You have a great muse, I think.
Love for you always-
Manph,
Engage in whatever struggle is necessary with yourself, but in the end the only reason for you to write is that you must! Whether the world, or no one is given entree to your literary offspring is not for you to decide, but write you MUST!
Lovingly,
Pa
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