Writing, and all it’s charms

I graduated, yeah, from a masters program. MFA in creative writing. In all that glory, I find I still don’t have what I need. I still feel lost and/or confused as to how and when I keep writing, and if I am even good enough…will they like it, will it grab anyone, am I the only one who likes my stories? The trials of writing a story or novel can take endless hours, for some. I am one of those. I pound it out when I feel like it, and simmer on it, the story, while I sit around and wait. But, what am I waiting for? To keep the writing going is the hardest part of graduating. My deadline is now on my own regard. I also don’t have a professor looking over my work letting me know what works and what doesn’t. To keep up the writing, the story telling, to share it with the world is not the easiest task.

Perhaps it’s my dialogue about the writing, calling it a task creates a motivational blocker. No, really?

I have to change the narrative, writing is now my art – paid or not – a job that will share my voice. Why I started writing to begin with was for my voice to be heard, you can’t silence me in my art. So, if I feel so strongly about the story and a character’s Why, or How, and their outcome – then why do I feel like the writing is a task? Because when I’m in it, and the character is talking, it is the most enjoyable part of my day. I tell myself to change the narrative, but change it to what?

Change is the only constant format of life, everything else is a crap shoot. So I take the challenge of the change that has been presented with my art. My narrative will be that writing is my art. I do it because I love it, and it’s how I can be heard…but will this change. Yes. I’m sure the doubt will strike me once a day, or more. So, to continue in this forever-changing-world that will trigger doubt, I can embrace the fear, hold it close and turn into fuel, courage, and see the charms in writing, not the task.

The changing narrative will be my challenge. I see this. I know this. Not the writing. The writing will be my charm in life.

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A Poem

Asking for Forgiveness

Dad. Keep playing the guitar while
I tell you about my real fears, my
wishes. I wont lie, I wont hide.
Forgive my foolishness. Please?

He exclaims, my dad, his wishes.
Come see him play, come watch,
Stand next to him, and read the
lyrics coming from the stand.

Marriage and kids, how do I tell Emma
that I can’t be the Auntie she deserves.
My dad asked, What have you learned
from living on the farm?

I wanted to tell him that I learned I was
exactly who he raised me to be, instead
I answered, I learned how to drive a tractor,
clean a coop, and dig up garlic. Sweaty mess.

My dad wrapped his arm around my shoulder,
and I know he’s trying.

What’s It Going To Take To Kill Me

I was reading something the other day, the only thing that stuck out and lingered with me was the relayed message, and not verbatim, What is it in your life which you love so much that you’re willing to let it kill you. The article was a basic run down on jobs, work, hobbies and living one’s life under the regard of love. After reading this, even days later, I wondered what in this world do I like doing so much that it transfers to love — I love it so much that it will kill me. Not literally stick a knife through my heart, but what is it in this world that I will do no-matter-what because I love it so much, I will die happy doing it???? Never minding rejection, time, payment, etc.

As I continue to ponder this killing love, I can’t help but think, “Duh Corrie, Writing.” But is that what I really want, I don’t know, because lately I have not been writing. In fact the more I focus on My Love, the more I can’t write. Nothing comes to mind, and I feel like, “Who would want to read it anyways.” Perhaps this is my problem. I don’t feel it, I don’t feel that what I have to say or write about would matter to anyone but me — when did that start to weigh in.

At this point in my life my writing is all I have to work with, it’s the only thing I can think about, and it’s not just a thought any more. It has manifested and taken over my brain. My mind space feels so small.

I keep saying over and over again, “Write Corrie, write. Write something, anything.”  I am almost sure that I am not the only writer in this world who comes to this point in their journey. However, others keep going, get published and make a career out of it.

Am I scared? Do I not have the confidence I thought I did? Am I changing, or dying inside? Why do I not take the bull by the horns and go for it, give it my all. In the past I lived life by the seat of my pants and wrote about it. Why is it different now? If I love writing so much why am I ignoring it, running away from it? And what is it going to take to let it kill me?

I suppose if I am going to let it kill me, I should stop running from it — easier said than done I’m sure, however, I must not be too far away. The daunting thoughts about practicing and exercising my muscle (writing) are grabbing at my heels. I am realizing that running away is slowing me down, weighing me down, making me more still and lifeless. What do I want, the writing to kill me or the thought of it. When presented in those terms, seems like the choice I will make is obvious. Right?

I’m at my crossroads, let the caterpillar turn into the butterfly.