Writing is a Love.Hate Relationship [jessi]

Preface: When I first I read Bird-by-Bird in college, it made me nervous about wanting to be a writer, because Anne Lamott is so neurotic, and it seems like every writer she knows is also neurotic. I thought, “If I have to be that dysfunctional in order to be a writer, I don’t think my homeschooled, two-parent, Conservative Christian, middle-income-America upbringing is going to cut it. I may have to choose another vocation.” But the truth is, no matter how well anyone starts out, your dysfunctions always find you.

Writing:
putting pen to paper,
the creation of black marks on white background;
marks that convey meaning and emotional resonance.

The blinking cursor of my open Word Doc is flash-flash-flashing,
and I stare blank-blankly at the screen, trying to
figure
out
how-how-how much of myself
to bring to this
conversation.

Which filters, like colored lenses, do I slide into place to make myself seem more insightful, because insight can create emotional resonance, and I live for the moment when someone, anyone, pulls me aside and says that my writing is relatable, because that means you’ve looked at my moment of truth and said, “me too.”

At least, I tell myself that.

But the truth is even that
Very Small Bit
of
truth and resonance
can turn out to be conjured.
Maybe it’s mere emotional exhibitionism—
the chance to smear my soul across
the page
and dare you to respond.

It’s addicting, this flinging of one’s insides out into space for whoever and whenever. How strange to have this public street corner on which to strip myself down to just bones in a gory display of flesh and blood. Somehow in the painful process of baring there is an element of hardening, and I wonder if I’m developing calluses on my soul.

You might ask,
“if you’ve finally
Figured this out,
why-why-why
the hell would you let
this revelation see
the
light of day?”
And, “why-why-why
would you
ever-
ever-
ever
click submit?”

But I’m desperate for affirmation, and I’m armed with the knowledge I can manipulate the written word to help me find my worth. Worth that ought to be found in only one place, but that relationship is too hard, takes too much time, and gives so little—at least at first, and I haven’t stuck around long enough to find out what happens later.

So I’ll sit here
most of the day—
waiting for a response, and
hitting refresh
refresh
refresh
refresh
refresh
refresh
.
.
.

(etc)