Writing in my journal comes naturally to me. So does writing on a scrap of paper, come to think of it, and writing an essay or assignment. The words just seem to flow, and I can get lost in the process of writing. It's a skill I've used and developed in moving on from disordered eating and thinking. It's an essential tool to staying sane, really.
When I get an attack of that critical voice - the one that tells me whatever I've done, said, thought or indeed am is wrong - my best move is to pull out my journal (or whatever's at hand) and scribble it all out. I write out what that voice is saying. Sometimes it's hard, because the words hurt, embarrass or sting me. Sometimes it's as easy as turning on a tap. And then I formulate my counter-attack and rebuke whatever arguments are thrown at me. I make it positive, non-judgemental and supportive. I write to myself as my own best friend. And then, invariably, the knots in my stomach unravel a little and the volume of the voice goes down a few notches. I move forward another step.
Whilst writing myself better, I've learnt that writing also makes me happy.The movement of my pen on the paper, feeling relieved as the words spill on the page, and excited as I can't write as fast as the words appear in my mind. The whole thing is pretty exhilarating, despite never leaving my seat. I feel silly even typing this.
Happiness in writing is not something I can remember feeling whilst obsessively counting calories. Happiness only came from losing pounds or dropping sizes.. Looking back, I'm not even sure I'd call it "happiness" anyway - perhaps relief or a sense of achievement is more accurate. Writing the numbers down and listing myself into a frenzy, I used writing against myself to account for myself. Each and every mouthful logged in little notebooks, until the bingeing began and I couldn't face writing anymore. I guess this partly why writing feels so brilliant now.
It's perhaps not surprising that I'm discovering how passionate I am about writing a book. A real book. No one needs to see this book but me; I just need to write. I've got a couple of ideas for what I'd like to write about, both of which I think have promise. I'm not so overwhelmed by my new job and my eating issues nowadays that I cannot make some space to write little and often. The scene is set and the future looks promising, right?
Yet when I put pen to paper (or fingers to keyboard) to write for this purpose - to fulfil this dream or burning ambition (over-used cliches, I know, but sometimes the oldies are goodies) - I stop short. I can't seem to get the words out. My head feels like alphabet soup. It's all consonants and no vowels, Carol.
I don't yet know why this is, but I have a sneaking suspicion that it's that critical voice again rendering me frozen with fear. I can't remember what it was to have dreams and ambitions; ones that are truly mine and mine alone. I've achieved things, sure. I'm moving forward in life, in terms of the usual progression markers of work and relationships. But very few of these feel truly mine. The closest I can get is my relationship with my partner; yet that is ours - relationships imply more than one person - and I'm talking about the solo stuff here.
Writing is something that is entirely mine.
No one is pressuring me to write (but me) and no one knows this is even a dream of mine (but me and him indoors). Being all mine perhaps makes it that bit more precious and fragile.
At the moment, it feels like I'm holding a glass bird in my hands; I can't open them for fear of it falling and breaking. My emotions run high whenever I dare to even consider it. If I'd been a different child, had a different life, dreams might be like sugar stealers. I'd be able to voice them aloud and blow them away, and perhaps a few would seed and grow. Being the person I am, with the life and experiences I've had, it's pretty understandable that the rarity of these dreams might make me a little more Gollum-like.
My writing is perhaps "my precious". But to really feel happiness in my writing, perhaps I need to let go a little and just let it come. See what happens. Maybe it won't shatter; maybe it'll shine a little brighter if I give it the freedom just to be.
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