Published November 26, 2012
I do not like to write about some things on paper.
The things seem more alive when they're inked on paper instead of typed into a blank word document. Sometimes, when I am writing with a pen, I pause, run my eyes over the scribbled words, and I am afraid.
I am afraid that the ink will become alive. That the paper will take on a life of its own and fly out my door, careening up the stairs until it lands in the hands of a family member. I am afraid of the horrified stares that the paper will induce. I am afraid that I will end up medicated or pitied because I've allowed eyes that were not supposed to see the paper to absorb its meaning and understand what I am.
Sometimes I shrink away from the paper until I muster the courage to reapproach it. Other times, I rip the paper into pieces, cram the shreds into the bottom of my wastebasket, and try to forget.
But I can't forget. Because what is on the paper is not restricted to the paper itself. It lives in my blood and my fingers and my mouth when I wake up from a nightmare and I've bitten through my lips. The paper is just a way for it to speak.
So I type. I sit in front of a laptop with music blaring into my ears in a feverish attempt to drown out some of the impact of the words, and I type. I close my eyes and allow the words to stream out of me in the hopes that setting them free will allow me to separate myself from them. That once the words are arranged into paragraphs, they will make more sense than they did when they were stumbling over themselves within me. But more words are always waiting, razor words with the ability to cut me deeper than the ones I've already written.
I write about things.
Like when I stood in the shower with my mouth wide open, swallowing deep gulps of scalding water without breathing until a horrible queasiness swelled in the back of my throat and the water came back up, melding with water streaming from the showerhead, and as I watched the water winding into a cyclone near the drain, I realized that I had been drowning myself and that, for a moment, I might have liked it.
Like laying in bed in the middle of the night, shivering because I feel vulnerable with my hands behind my head, because I feel exposed when I am turned away from the door, but afraid when I am facing the door because of the what ifs. What if the door opens and there is no one there? What if the door opens and there is nothing but an empty doorway? What if there is something there that makes me wish there was nothing?
Like when I was painting and suddenly thought that the crimson paint was the most beautiful thing in the world. I splashed it over my arms and my face and my chest, imagining that it was something other than paint. I panicked because someone began knocking on my bedroom door, so I scrubbed at my body with paper towels because I didn't want them to see me covered in scarlet liquid. I rubbed until my skin was a different shade of red. It wasn't because of the paint.
I am afraid of the thoughts that I have when I am driving by myself in my car, when I imagine what would happen if I let go of the wheel just because. When I picture the car lurching and crunching around me. I think of being covered in something warm and imagining that it is paint.
And I am afraid to write about it on paper.
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139,487 Literary Works • 672,577 Reviews
I get it. I especially like the last 2 sentences. the last sentence being short and direct was sobering. You made me remember feelings I have had in myself, and you can't ask for much more than that.
For the longest time I refused to write in anything other than a black and white comp book. When I finally realized that once I wrote it; I owned it. That was all I needed. Especially with poetry I felt that the handwriting was nearly as important as the words themselves. There is something almost spiritual to me about penmanship and the affect that it can have on the overall interpretation of the piece.
I know that aspect isn't what you wrote about, but it goes hand and hand for me because my fear is what kept my creative process from growing. I had to tell myself that no one is reading this notebook unless they kill me to finally give myself some freedom. It proved to be priceless for me. I think everyone should have one year of their life that use only notebooks not keyboards. You can really get intimate with your creative side through handwriting.
That is my experience, anyway.
Good piece.
Thanks, Tulsa!
This is fantastic. I completely relate to being afraid of writing and having others see my work. I think they'll think that I am absolutely insane. I'm afraid that if my parents or my creative writing teacher sees my work they will send me to a psychologist. I think that sometimes we all feel the way that you are feeling. I know at one point I did. So did a lot of people I know, regarding the last few paragraphs. That being said, you might want to see someone if you're feeling this way. I saw a psychologist and so did some other people I know and are a lot better because of it. And as far as writing things that couuld make you go to the psychologist, I think its actually ahealthy way to deal with things. I write out all of my anger and frustration because itsa lot better the some of the alternatives. Just keep writing, no matter what. Even if you're afraid others will see it. Even if it isn't on paper.
Thanks, Pencil!
Oh my, I love this one. I know you posted it a while ago, but I'm new so I've just found it..
I really like the way you express your feelings - it makes me wish I was able to talk about my feelings like that as well, instead of creating hundreds of masks of which some I tend to call my characters..
It's so easy for me to relate to that. Things like those you talk about, the things I don't write on paper either, are the things I don't write at all - as I'm not quite sure I even want to see them written.. but they're always there anyway.
Perhaps those things are what makes us able to write those other words - those that others can read, and those that can stay..
A.
There are some things that occupy our minds the most, things that we live with but would never on earth want someone else to know. You're talking about vulnerability here and the way you've done it is entrancing.
"I am afraid that I will end up medicated or pitied because I've allowed eyes that were not supposed to see the paper to absorb its meaning and understand what I am."
Feelin' it!
Thank you!
Oh my god. This was lovely, and I'm sorry if I can't really sum it up and demean it with silly words like 'lovely.' But truly, I browse the zero reviews section and, honestly, I don't expect much. This was incredible, and gave me goosebumps. And that's good. That's really really good. It means you touch the readers- and that you are an effective penman.
In my own way, not trying to put myself in your shoes, I can relate. I want to write during school or in my dad's house and I find myself refraining because you never quite know who will see what you write. You have wondrous skill, and this blew me away. You're not cliched (in what could be a REALLY cliched topic) and you keep a good pace. You don't over embellish or elaborate, you tell exactly what is needed and desired and you let it stand on it's own. I can find no flaws, grammatically, but I was so sucked into reading that I could've looked over them.
I'm sorry (only sort of) if I've gone a bit overboard, but I believe great writers should know when they've done well. Please write more, because I'd love to read more of your work.
- Renn
Thanks, Renn! This piece means a lot to me. I'm happy that you liked it.