The page. The page is where I bleed. The crumpled, blank pages are my sanitary napkins. And fuck it hurts. There is no hiding here. There is no hiding. Writing for me, is suffering. There are joys and highs but most of it is just good old-fashioned pain.
I have to sit here at the laptop. I have to sit here and look deep inside, right into my gut. I have to crack my mouth wide open. My jaw dislocates with a click. I stuff my arm down my throat. I’m choking. My esophagus tears. I can’t breathe. My arm crawls further into the sticky abyss. Where, drenched in bile and acid, and wrapped in razor wire is my pain.
I have to reach deep into the pit of my stomach and pull out my bloody, crawling guts. I have to yank out my pain and smear it here onto the page. And that process is entirely painful. That process is awful. I have no joy in it.
There is nothing more raw, more honest and more scary. I am are alone with myself. Alone with my thoughts. Alone with my pain. I have no joy in it.
I have no joy in making these discoveries. Because more often than not, what I uncover is pain, guilt and a deep sense of worthlessness. I can see my fears reflected back to me on that empty page. A feeling that I am not enough. I am not fully formed. My existence is not enough for the world. I am not enough. I am a Halfling.
Anticipating the pain is almost as bad as actually feeling it. That is why I cannot write for you. That is why I can only ever write for myself. That is why you don’t hear from me. Because I am afraid.
I still exist. I still breathe. My head is full of ideas. They’re brimming over the top. I never fear running out of things to say. I am afraid of discovering the truth. I am afraid that once I have discovered this pain. Once I have recovered it. It will need addressing. It will need fixing. And I don’t know how to fix it. I don’t know how to solve it.
I turned 31 a week ago and for the first time I’m starting to think that time is running out. I set this blog up in 2014. It’s now 2018. That’s four years. And I know that if I had been able to push past that pain, I would be writing books by now. I would have been able to take this blog to the next level.
There is always this conflict inside me. On the one hand, I know that I am a good writer and I know that my blunt honesty resonates with people. I know that my subject matter does too. There is this quiet confidence in me that I know everything will be ok. On the other hand, I am 31. I should have published my book by now. This book that I am always talking about. This book that will change the world. But I can’t. I can’t do it. I have been putting it off for three years. Because I cannot face this pain. I cannot face making these discoveries. I cannot be left alone in front of the empty white page because I am too afraid of what I will find.
I am not one of those Elizabeth Gilbert type, bouncy writers. For me, this is painful. Writing for me is looking deep inside myself. Like I mentioned above, it is literally reaching down inside my gut and splashing my pain onto the page and standing back, seeing what sticks and swiveling the page around so that the audience can see the bloody, gory crap that my ego has just shat onto the page. It’s awful.
Why put myself through that? Why write at all?
Because I have been called to it. There is this force inside me. This THING. This warm, yellow light. This thing is the undefined knowledge that I am going to do great things in my life. It is as clear to me as night and day. I do not doubt it for a second. This thing has given me this relaxed, nonchalant attitude towards success. What is success? Is it money? Material possessions? A beautiful family?
What is it? For me my personal idea of success is creating meaningful content. Words…artwork..comics, cartoons, jokes, music…paintings…poems…anything. I LOVE to think. I love to ponder. I love not fitting in. I love being on the outside.
Being on the outside allows me to look in. It allows me to keep my distance. It allows me to observe and think and write. I have to write. As hard as it is. I HAVE to do it.
A few months ago, my sister and I went back our childhood home. Despite being told it was unsafe we both felt a strong urge to go into the attic to see if any of our toys where still up there. In between old boxes of Lego and dusty Barbie’s I found my mum’s old typewriter.
I immediately knew that this was not an accident. It was a sign. This is a not fad. This is not a phase. This is not a drill. This urge to create has been with me since I was born.
I have to do it. I have to write because somewhere out there is a book searching for me. And I am looking for it too. And we keep missing each other. Somewhere out there is my book and I can’t leave it alone. It’s such a strong force. This calling. I have to find it. I have to find it. We have to find each other.
I will not give up. Even it if takes me fifty years. I will not give up. I will not let my book roam aimlessly. I will not give up until it is safe. I will never give up. My dear book please keep going. Please keep holding on…I am coming for you!
6 thoughts on “Why I can’t write”
cheering you on from over here. take that feeling and make it come alive. you can do eeeeeeeeeet! x
Oh my lovely Sina! I know you WILL write that book and I want a signed copy! Thinking of you always!
We all know you have the talent, a masterpiece doesn’t happen over night, and you’re only 31! x
P.s. Disappointed Barbie’s shoe wasn’t mentioned!
I like your take on why you write, I wrote a blog post “why do I write” the other day. I came to the conclusion that I don’t know why I do it, only that I must.
The book is out there. Keep writing. Love your work.
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Hey Mark 🙂 I read your post 🙂 Really enjoyed it. Thanks for reaching out x
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Thank you 😀
I must reiterate, love your work.