My labor of love is rounding its final few corners. I say this with a mix of pride and peace. I've worked hard, harder than I've ever worked on a collection of writing before. I can say that and mean it. Be it maturity or timing, I've discovered a new love and understanding when it comes to the page. I suppose I have this year to thank for some of that growth. What a strange time to be living.
I think certain personal decisions and energies are palpable to others, whether we mean them to be or not. Kind of like how one shitty attitude can dull a room in record time. Those close to me have noticed something mended--as if writing and I took a long, lush walk sometime over the summer and squashed some shit being avoided for much too long. In the past I've likened my connection to my work as that of a bad lover--erratic, intense, hot and cold and never sure. I simply don't feel that way anymore. I don't want to love anything in a harmful way, especially myself. I also don't want to romanticize what often requires hard work. And it is hard work--to create, to write, to not default to hiding. It isn't always gorgeous. It's a messy desk and long hours and miles of scaffolding that no one will ever see. For almost every poem there is a page or two of tinkering--bent nails and spare boards. You get the analogy.
It's putting the time in. The sweat, the truth, the questions, both feet--everything. It's felt so freeing to do that, to hold this great love of mine with compassion. Total compassion, which means all of it. And not just when its convenient or suits my mood. I am a writer awake; I am a writer at my day job and a writer when I sleep, when I curl up on the couch and yawn into my coffee. This is who I am. This book is a true reflection of me honoring that.
I do at times think about death because it is a part of life. Inevitable. And I do think about what I will look back on and feel joy for. I want to be filled with joy for what I am doing. To see that I loved as best I could, that I took chances, that I honored what I've been given and that I took care of it. This new chapter of my growth as a writer has forever changed me. This book of mine, a true labor of love. In moments where I felt myself start to hate it all, I learned to step away and soothe myself. Sometimes I buckled down and shoved through it. I wrote in the morning, midday on lunch break, at night, with tears in my eyes, in silence, with the same song on repeat to keep me in the pocket. I put in the work, and I did it for myself. Long overdue, for sure. But here now, here for the rest of my days if I want it.
I think certain personal decisions and energies are palpable to others, whether we mean them to be or not. Kind of like how one shitty attitude can dull a room in record time. Those close to me have noticed something mended--as if writing and I took a long, lush walk sometime over the summer and squashed some shit being avoided for much too long. In the past I've likened my connection to my work as that of a bad lover--erratic, intense, hot and cold and never sure. I simply don't feel that way anymore. I don't want to love anything in a harmful way, especially myself. I also don't want to romanticize what often requires hard work. And it is hard work--to create, to write, to not default to hiding. It isn't always gorgeous. It's a messy desk and long hours and miles of scaffolding that no one will ever see. For almost every poem there is a page or two of tinkering--bent nails and spare boards. You get the analogy.
It's putting the time in. The sweat, the truth, the questions, both feet--everything. It's felt so freeing to do that, to hold this great love of mine with compassion. Total compassion, which means all of it. And not just when its convenient or suits my mood. I am a writer awake; I am a writer at my day job and a writer when I sleep, when I curl up on the couch and yawn into my coffee. This is who I am. This book is a true reflection of me honoring that.
I do at times think about death because it is a part of life. Inevitable. And I do think about what I will look back on and feel joy for. I want to be filled with joy for what I am doing. To see that I loved as best I could, that I took chances, that I honored what I've been given and that I took care of it. This new chapter of my growth as a writer has forever changed me. This book of mine, a true labor of love. In moments where I felt myself start to hate it all, I learned to step away and soothe myself. Sometimes I buckled down and shoved through it. I wrote in the morning, midday on lunch break, at night, with tears in my eyes, in silence, with the same song on repeat to keep me in the pocket. I put in the work, and I did it for myself. Long overdue, for sure. But here now, here for the rest of my days if I want it.
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