Saturday, June 02, 2012

Notes to the Author

I used to write prolifically once. I used to write, period. Now I can't do anything but react. I write because I'm expected to write, because somebody wants to come and get their fix. They want to hear about what's happened, get a new perspective. So I write. The muse is sleeping, or maybe she is gone. She used to look over my shoulder and murmur words of encouragement as I poured my soul out onto a keyboard. It got so that at times I felt my chest was itching for me to write something, that I could not wait to get to my desk so that I can pour out the latest idea that was spilling from the brim of my head. Now I hate this blog, I hate what it's become, and I hate that people read it. I hate why people want to read it. So I write something that is no longer true, that does not come from where it is supposed to come from. I fear that now I'm like any other schmuck with a keyboard, somebody who just wants to get his name everywhere. But when people tell me they've seen my blog it feels as if I've been caught coming out of a brothel. As if something shameful and horrid has just been uncovered about me, and I smile nervously and thank them before shuffling off quickly, making a mental note to avoid seeing them again. That isn't something recent, I've always hated talking about my writing. Maybe that is a good thing, it might mean I'm not completely dead inside yet.

The worst is when people ask me to comment about something I wrote, or tell me how much they loved some piece or other. The truth is I can't remember what I write most of the time, and the 'better' the posting the worse the amnesia. How could I tell people that it wasn't me who was writing those words? That it was my beautiful muse, moving me with her strings like a mad puppet mistress. She would only come when I wasn't looking for her, and stay when I didn't think of her. Now it is quiet, and for days I would stare at a screen, starting and deleting posts.

I was thinking today about why I hardly write anymore. Then it struck me. I used to write oftentimes to express my anger, sometimes because I loved, but always because I felt something. I wrote my truth, and it felt good. From now on I will only write my truth.

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