So many words. So many so many words. And my biggest question, still, even after 1,421 posts in the nine years of this place where I have pushed keys, published: WHAT DO I SAY FIRST?*
I've been thinking and talking and mulling about writing a ton lately, but when it gets down to WRITING, actually WRITING, my head doesn't know where to go. I could write about love. I could write about home(s). I could write about anger, about solitude and change. I have so many people, not forged from my creative conscience, but from my world, my life, and I want to put them on paper. My brain overflows when I think about the amount of words I have stuck in my head. Stuckstuckstuckstuckstuuuuuuuuck --*
I know the solution, I know the way to attack it, I know that what I have to do is write words and write more words and more and not stop, and somehow it will all get to where it is supposed to be. I know that. Why is it so much easier to know than to do? To put into practice, to have a disciplined routine, to type and ink more words instead of staring off into space or returning to the newsfeed or wait for what feels like the right word to come into my head at the right moment? Why does it take so much?*
I don't mean to whine; I'm still learning this. But I have words and I need words and I am not me unless words go on and out and through. Pulsing pressing satisfactory blooming sink into WORDS. I am a human and for me, because I am human, I write. I write because I am human. You people in my life, you, all of you, bring it out and push me into it and give me so much to say. You overflow and overfill and I topple and I spill and words somehow come out. I am drawn to the gritty questioning bits of life that may not seem like questions, they may seem like the most obvious things in the world, but to me they are so mysterious, jarring, messy and gorgeous. What individual actions mean and the power of collective emotion and what strength looks like. How we are drawn together by no true visible standstill thing, but how splitseconds and long journeys can equally ground root and grab; how music can bring tears and somehow the world seems a burst of brilliance or great great sorrow; how sacredness first comes, small and floating, growing infinitely into deep roar or stumbling silence. Time, and history, and blood pulsing through bodies within it day by day by day. For grace-laden humor, for sore and hot hurt, for settling and stomaching and straining through the mundane and the massive and getting somewhere, getting closer, to what...?*
I WRITE FOR THIS, attainment on the rocky road, and I don't know when I started and I do not know why I started and I don't know what it will bring and I don't know sometimes how I will be able to put one thing and then another, I wonder about my coherence, about my decisions, my movement, my head and my heart and my hands putting all of this together. I wonder how it will all go, I wonder who you will be for me and I for you. I wonder what truth will sound like when I put it on paper. I wonder if I will ever get a decent night's sleep when I have stories to spell and tell. I wonder what I am going to do with this thing that seems less like a gift of mine and more like a gift to me...*
Hey all! Well, this is my first blog! Hope there will be many more to come. ... This is going to be a great way for me to get my feelings out, since I love to write.*
I wrote that on February 17, 2002. I was fourteen years old, every kind of teenage dreamy, with oodles of exclamation points and sweet-tipped nicknames, hadn't yet discovered the freefall fun of dropping swear words and only starting to argue with and embrace a messy abundant God. Word after word after word... picked me up and slowly showed me how to go. So much to learn, so much not to know, bright and blurry, what just happened, ready set --
Breathe in, breathe out, pen to paper, fingers to keys. I know this part.