Postscripts: What Have I Become?

A complainer, Gentle Reader?  Is that what I’ve become?  I feel like all I do on this blog is complain about not writing, so instead, I am going to write on this blog, trying to get some words knocked loose of the cobwebs in my brain. I know the longer I go without writing, the harder it gets.  Writing, like practicing a musical instrument, is about memory muscle: hands on keyboard, pen to paper, write write writing away.

Instead of writing, I have been staring at blank pages, and I’ve tried everything short of standing on my head.  But I know the problem.  See, I’m supposed to be rewriting my YA novel right now.  Instead, I feel daunted by the prospect of rewriting, normally, my favorite activity.  Sometimes, I enjoy rewriting more than I enjoy writing itself.  There is something soothing about it, beautiful in its complexity.  You take a thing, and remake a thing, so that it is, in the end, two things you recognize (how my students would chastise me for using the word “thing,” a word I urge them never to use in writing!) but neither and both at once.

My first story that I remember writing was in third grade.  I wrote about a girl who suffered Werewolfitis, and let me tell you, EVERYONE on the bus that day loved my story.  The thrill of it, of others reading the words I had written and commenting on it, I knew then, I had to be a writer.

I’ve changed more than a bit since that eight-year-old child first set pen to paper, and I’ve changed the most in my need for accolades.  Now, I want to please myself.  And that’s not possible.  Not without words.

BICHOK, friends.  BICHOK, BICHOK, BICHOK.

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