Sometimes I think the only way to write is by pouring one’s heart into the story. I inject not only compassion I feel for people I know, but also very personal experiences from my own life. I pour myself into my work.
Sometimes I feel like readers can recognize these bits of my truth about pain and longing and hope. I feel like they read what I write and deeply connect to the story. These feelings are validating and make me want to continue writing from my heart.
But sometimes I feel like I have poured my heart out and people look at it and think, “What a freakin’ mess that is. Step carefully around that, dear. Don’t get any on your shoes.”
Different days bring different ways of seeing it. I try not to make major decisions about my future based on either of these ideas. But lately I just don’t want to write anymore. So I don’t. I cut fabric into tiny squares thinking I might sew some patchwork dogs to give to special education classes next December. I cut squares because they are precisely 2.25″ x 2.25″ but each varies slightly by pattern. I cut squares because it is repetitive work which requires very little thought. I cut squares because I’ve acquired so much fabric over the last two years and am ashamed to have left it neglected so long.
I cut squares because I’m avoiding writing.
I don’t think there is a story left to be written by me which is more intimate, important, or heartfelt than Winter Seedlings and Silencer. What could I say more? At the moment, not much. I am still empty from pouring myself out into all that work in such a short period of time. The issues presented in those works were things I had rolled over in my head for ten or twenty years. It was everything poured out at once.
So, what kind of writer am I that I can’t just type up a love story, or a documentary, or a quaint tale of Appalachia? Am I a writer at all if I can’t write daily, even to type up a blog post? Successful authors should be able to do at least that much.
But, I’m not that kind of writer, I guess. I don’t want “it” bad enough. “It” = anything. I just want to be quiet until I see a space to make a difference, whether it be with a patchwork dog or a new novel. I don’t want to pour myself out for nothing, or worse, to be stepped around. There are plenty of other authors to read in the meantime.