I need a pen-finger. Like a pen on the tip of my finger. Do they do that yet?
Now that I’m commuting a whopping 25-minutes (ick!) to work, I have this harrowing problem: I get ideas. Sentences. Words. PARAGRAPHS! while I’m driving but I rarely have the two things I need to capture them: a pen and a paper. I used to have a pen and a paper. Before we moved. Back when my life was predictable and manageable and I fancied myself a writer.
I don’t fancy myself a writer anymore. This? This is a test run. How can I fancy myself a writer when I’ve written no more than three poems in three months? Well: I could write about not fancying myself a writer anymore and see how that goes.
This is such a bloggy blog post and I don’t like it at all. What I love to feature is off-the-wall poetry and blast-from-the-past-memoir, but as a writer, I am committed to keeping my readers up-to-date and sharing feelings and images hot-off-the-press. Basically I feel the need to tell you where I’m at right now. This is not an obligation but a pleasure. These type of posts will come rarely, but they will come.
Okay, one thing I need to apparently work on as a newish again writer is staying away from cliches, wouldn’t you agree?? (see paragraph above.) (This is a learning process.)
That’s the thing: there’s a You. There’s a chance that You are somebody New, but that is not likely. More likely that You are somebody who already knows me very well. You are wondering, “How is Terah?” and “What is she doing??” Well my horoscope, although I haven’t checked it, must read: “Stop freaking out over nothing!” And it’s not the sabotage-type of freaking out this time. No, I’m not about to ruin anything, I swear. This is a full blown, it’s a full moon, everything is going fantastic and coming to fruition, I can’t wait to dig into my writing again, I can’t wait to do (a) again (b) again and (c) for the first time. This is an ecstatic period, and we (my boyfriend and I) are easing out of a rather long period of transition. This is a “I’m setting up my writing space and about to Tasmanian devil my way back into my story” kind of vibe.
But I won’t bore you. All that matters now is locating a pen and a pad of paper and keeping that shit with me at all times. The writer didn’t leave me. The writer has been banging on the walls of my brain screaming “Let me out for fucks sake, what’s the hold up???” The writer doesn’t exactly understand job changes or home changes or family changes or health changes, the important things that get in our way of writing, but in turn give us something to write about. But all that matters now is that I do. To me. All that matters to me is that I write. Writing is my first born. I’ve abandoned it and now it’s time to whiddle my way back into its life and make promises that I will keep. I intend to seduce writing into keeping talking to me like it used to. I still feel a deep need to engage with the world and I know there’s only one way I am meant to do that: with black ink and white pages.
Writing is a subtle yet BOOMING expression of self and art. An honor. Writing is an honor. In closing, your blessings are encouraged but whether they are articulated here or not: I feel them. I know you. You know me. Yes, I’m still here. No, my dreams haven’t changed. Haven’t even budged an inch.
I suppose I fancy myself a writer again (words came out.) Now all I need is a finger pen.