Something Kinda Meta

Here are some of the pieces I plan on writing in the future:

  • How Chronic Pain Feels
  • My Emerging “Radical Feminist” Coming Out Story
  • How Hair is a Feminist Issue
  • 2 Truths and a Lie
  • Pressure: The Incredible Motivator
  • How Do You Measure A Year? (coming December 31, 2016)

However, as we all know, plans and reality are different. There’s so much I want to write!  I spend my days narrating an internal monologue only to find that when I finally sit down to write, and calm my thoughts enough to spit out something relatively coherent “my fingers freeze, my mind stops. I can’t find the words and the paragraphs I had so eloquently written in my head are nowhere to be found.” This whole thing is so frustrating!

I mean, I’ve been writing over on ravishly.com living the dream as a contributing writer! Here’s my contributor page: YAY!!!! And, I’ve been over on themighty.com (here) writing about chronic pain. Yet the personal stuff, the things I actually want to work on and write on, has been disappointingly neglected.

I’ve said it before, but when I’m writing, I can be myself and share my thoughts. It actually feels really vulnerable, exposed, and terrifying! Sometimes I get “stage-fright” and want to swallow my words back up or not claim them as my own. In those moments, I take the the Shonda Rhimes “yes” approach – even though it scares me. I have to own this!

Earlier this year, I couldn’t think. In those months, I felt like an essential part of my identity was missing. It enraged me! During that time writing, editing, and revising helped me make sense of the chaos.

In so many ways, I’m back now, and I can think again! And so, what follows is literally something kinda meta. It’s just I’ve been thinking a lot, and need to reconcile those thoughts into something relatively cohesive.


They say the best writers are well read.  I envy the craftsmanship of writers whose talent makes ideas and images explode off the page. I admire people who are so fervently dedicated to this art.

I walk around the world narrating to myself. I arrange the words in my mind as if they’re puzzle pieces. When I get stuck, I move on to another part, or I backtrack and approach the challenge from a different angle. For example, I could see a bee pollinating a flower – sucking the nectar from its colorful, robust center, and wonder, to myself: How would I describe this? What imagery would I call upon to depict the experience of quenching one’s innate desire by entering the succulent, tight center of a bright, open flower? How could I detail the onomatopoeia I’m searching for to describe the sucking sound escaping from the bee’s mouth as it nurses the flower, caring deeply to attend to every last drop of think, sweet nectar like a baby coveting, adoring even, its mother’s breast? Is it a puck sound? More of a slurp?  

As I hear conversations, I consciously insert the unspoken aspects of dialogue – sigh, beat. Soon, the percussive nature of a gripping exchange becomes inexplicably compelling. An oration that is disciplined by rhythm embodies a pace, a tempo, that’s nearly impossible to ignore. It’s the type of pentameter that’s so relentlessly captivating the words practically don’t matter at all. And, when I zoom up close to the rhythm of life and embrace the interconnectedness of each person’s story the words, the narrations, become illuminated for me.

These words, they practically beg for engagement and acknowledgement. They strive for consumption and understanding. Yet, the beauty lies in the ability to appreciate both the clarity of shared meaning, and the messiness of each individual’s experiences clouding a shared conceptualization of a story. If we’re attentive, intentional, and skilled, we can generate stories that completely relay how we’re feeling, and what we want others to understand about our lived experience. Idealistically, we can use words as vehicles to move ideas forward.

And so, here I am; I’m relentlessly trying to narrate my world. I walk around composing paragraphs, envisioning the sentences, rearranging their structure – all the while tirelessly wondering, “how will I explain my play, my script, of the world?”, and “how will I tell my story?”

 

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