listening: f*** was i, jenny owen youngs
(fa la la la la, la la la la)
Here is where the writer's block is at. Let's not start with the horrible grammar in my leading sentence to today's blog post.
I thought of posting the piece which is positively boiling with everything I have to say about writing, but then realised that I would still want to censor it for this space. I am not brave enough. So I will put lines from it and hope that is enough to quiet the insistent "why aren't you writing?" in my fingers and head and heart.
excerpt - i forgot how to write - rachel s. lemke
...
I hear vignettes but do not reach for my pen, am tormented by words but never write them down, see poetry and do not open my computer, find all the images but no cohesive whole....
All these beautiful, vivid characters live in my head, demand that I write down their favourite colour and give them a family tree, give them a history, give them a name, and I do exactly as they ask except for one thing. I whisper their dramas to myself, narrate their lives in my head, conduct imaginary interviews, but they plead to have their story written and I do not do it.
Writing is the hardest art, the most exposed; the art that expects the writer to pour pieces of her psyche into thousands of different characters. It demands the formation of a million images, all painted with a small slice of the author's soul. I am afraid to be seen both at my best and at my worst.
ykylm,
rae
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