I refuse to do any writing when I'm going through an ordeal. I may jot down ideas, I may even read, but I certainly won't write. When I have done so in the past, revisiting that piece to edit or polish, just brings up all of the bad memories associated with that time in my life.
I've been going through some major stuff in my life and I haven't felt like doing much of anything, let alone writing.
When I felt well enough to get back into the swing of things, I felt the dreaded writer's block.
I thought "Maybe I should study writing, do some research, read in/out of my genre". I.e. bike shedding. Doing everything BUT writing.
"I'm too cool for school with my nifty bike shed."
(This isn't what bike shedding is meant when it comes to writing)
Picture courtesy of http://rajeshecea.blogspot.ca/2009/11/bike-sheds.html
And I sat, and sat, looked at Twitter, checked Facebook, played Two Dots, looked for jobs, played Call of Duty, now it's supper time, better clean the cat litter, oh look it's angry o'clock.
Nothing came to me. N.O.T.H.I.N.G. Day after day of nothing but irritation.
One thing led to another, yada, yada, yada - I found an online writer's group and signed up.
What do I have to lose, right? I was determined to get over my page fright.
One of the first creative exercises in this group, was to write 250 words (I did 252 - what's it to ya?), in the first person point of view, as a colour. When you were done you read it out loud to yourself (part of identifying your "writer's voice") and then you posted it.
The more I wrote, the more excited I got, the more ideas came to me, the more I moved things around and came up with more and more until I was done. And it was a poem. A poem? Yes, a poem. I'm not a poetry person, per se, but yep, it was a poem.
Then a funny thing happened.
When I started to read it out loud, I began to feel myself getting emotional. My voice wavered, I began to tremble, and I started to cry. I stopped reading and I thought "Why am I crying?".
The answer came quickly "Because you have denied yourself this place of solace, wonder and excitement for too long."
And I continued to read. And I continued to cry. And then I posted it.
I could probably make it longer, polish it up a bit, but I'm not going to do that.
I felt open and raw while writing - and I'm leaving my poem open and raw on here.
I am midnight
I am midnight.
I am shade on a blistering summer afternoon. I am the space under your bed that hides the monsters.
I am the scorched rubber on the road after a collision, or, near miss. I am the tire that swings from the mighty oak tree, whizzing you through adolescence, through the air into space. I am the storm clouds in November.
I am what remains after light and fire, and burning. I am charcoal. I am the drawings on the cavern walls of ancient man. I am works of art. I add definition to photos, of times gone past. Half of a whole. I am the hateful stroke that slashes your writing.
I am the apple of your eye, your pupil, out of which you use to see. I am the black eye, swollen, bruised shut. I am the eyeblack grease of the athlete, the markings of war paint on warriors.
I am what makes zebras beautiful. Leopards different from tigers. I am the pitch of Poe's raven. I am the jet black cat to cross your path.
I am the smooth onyx line around the eyes of Cleopatra. The dot above Marilyn Monroe's pouty lips. I am the soot in your chimney.
I am the humility of monks and nuns. I am the angst and rebellion of teenagers. I am the finest sable of luxury and royalty.
I am nothing, a void, a vacuum, a space, a hole, eternity.
I am not one colour but all colours, swallowed, beautiful.
Aaaaaaaaannnnnd, I'm crying again. Ha, ha.
Seriously though, I would love for any and all that come across this blog post, to post your own work like this, in my comments. Or even put it on your blog and send me the link. I would love to read them.