Sabotage.
Hi.
Every day, for the last couple of months, I have woken up and gone to sleep burning to write. To write the book I am working on, to write the essays that feel like they are a portal out of - if not, all of hell -- at least, like the foyer of hell -- to write more poems, to write truths, to write the stories about my days. There isn't a day that goes by where my hands don't feel like they are on fire, waiting and writhing, to type out words.
Still.
I have been telling myself that my words are pointless. That I won't change anyone's heart with them, or tug at any part of them -- that my words won't any difference. Or that I'll write something I'm deeply proud of and it will just sit on my desktop until I'm ninety-five. And I want to share my writing. Because other people sharing their writing is HOW WE GET TO READ WRITING. How we get to read books. How we know other people struggle with the things we struggle with. How we feel less alone. So if I craft these sentiments and then I let them die inside my hard drive, what this the point of having written?
So I've been stowing the computer away and focusing on the other stuff in the day to day. Coffee. Walks with Bela. Obsessive thoughts about control. An obsessive search for a new apartment. Plans. Potty training a child who loves to poop in fresh, clean cotton underwear. I have been spending my time on everything.but.writing. And I have been miserable.
Two days ago, I realized, not for the first time -- but for what I hope is the last time -- that writing isn't just my natural inclination, my joy, or my fun -- and my writing is not my possession. My writing is my duty.
Since I was a young girl, people have tilted their heads like dogs while I spoke, and said, 'Wow. You put that in an interesting way.' Or a 'beautiful way.' Or a way that they could 'finally understand.' Their eyes opened up ever so slightly and sometimes I could see a hair move in the wind of their new perspective. I had created change. Whether it be for one millisecond or one million years, in that moment, with my words and their deep connection to my heart and my mind - I created change. I did my duty.
Five years ago, when I packed up my apartment in Chicago and moved for three months to Kentucky, I started my blog, and started writing almost every day. I didn't question where the writing would go and what it would DO, I just wrote. And I felt fulfilled and alive. Because I was actively doing my duty.
One night, the friend with whom I was staying and I went out to a tiny wine bar, in a tiny town. It was dark and late and nearly empty. Suddenly, a group of three males walked in. I bristled. I didn't want to interact with them. I have never enjoyed interacting with groups of men. I stayed on guard, as they saddled up to us. I stayed on guard, when we joined our table with theirs. I stayed on guard when they asked what we were drinking.
And then, suddenly, I was disarmed.
We were dancing around getting-to-know-you conversation when one of the males -- the most spritely -- stood up and stepped back and looked me and my friend over thoroughly. He was quiet, and pondering, and it seemed a respectful and sincere taking-in-of-us -- as humans -- not as women, or even as friends.
He opened his mouth and spoke. And when he spoke, he spoke with authority. He hit the nail on the head. He told my friend exactly what she did for work.
And then - he turned to me - put his lips together before they parted again,
and my whole entire body
was tuned in.
-- if he was right about her -- what could he know about me?
"And you." He said. Then paused. "You are writing a book."
**
I will be damned if I make a mockery of who I know I am.
I will be damned if I make a liar out of him.
If it takes all my balls and all my strength, I'm going to do my duty.
I have to sign off now. I have a shitton of writing to do.
Love, Kelly
<3