The Reluctant Poet

I don’t think I want to do this anymore. I’m not sure why I started this in the first place. A very close and very loved friend of mine once asked me, “does the writing make you feel better?” And I answered no. It doesn’t make me feel lighter, it has no catharsis, in fact I’m not even sure it makes me feel anything. What I do know is that the responses more than make up for this. People I would never have expected have shared close, personal things with me, inspired from what I have written. People have also commented that it has had a negative impact, and others have said it has made them sad, drew tears from them. This is not what I wanted, I never wanted people to be upset. I understand that writing and reading is a personal art, people will take what they want, what they need from it; I can’t control the reactions of others even though sometimes I really wish that I could. You can blame the Virgo in me for that.

At the beginning of the first lockdown, I felt a sudden spark, an electric jolt that opened my eyes and my heart. It’s no secret that I do not enjoy my day job, a temporary filling that somehow became permanent. Another plan derailed, I have a habit of overstaying my welcome. When the pandemic first hit, everybody was changed, even if only a little. I knew that I had to do something, something creative. I’m no painter, my vocals can only carry me through a drunken party, and I was in no mood to learn how to knit. That’s it, I’ll write! I thought. I’d done it before, privately and publicly, I’ll just do it again! I’d had more experiences, and I thought I was definitely a better writer than I was a cook. I created a plan; I drew the plan up on a piece of paper and stuck it to my wall. I set little goals for myself, and checked them off one by one. I bought a laptop, my first in years, I bought my domain and I was set. Nothing could stop my excitement. I made lists upon lists on what I could talk about. Politics, the magic of lasagne, trauma, sexual liberation, my addiction to the Real Housewives franchise. Nothing would be not be explored, and I had my satchel and telescope at the ready.

My first piece was an exercise in style, trying to find my voice. I wrote about being hungover on a Sunday, every Sunday, and how I would refuse to feel any guilt for filling my time with Pringles and mid-day naps. The second, a reflection of my younger self and how I wished I had that confidence back. The third and fourth, almost companion pieces, about my trauma and growing up. Accepting that this new chapter of my life would be titled, “late twenties panic syndrome” and described how frustrated with myself I was. And the fifth and most recent, a brief exploration into sex and how my formative experiences have shaped the way I see my own sensuality, my full bodied readiness to be touched. I have read each one back, and I have to be honest, I have no fucking idea what I am talking about. It doesn’t sound like me, at least the me I want to be. It’s not refined, it’s not expertly written, and it’s a pale analysis of what I think I really meant. I’m no Joan Didion, never tried to be. But I’m sure even Joan Didion is proud of her own writings.

I had three blogs before this, all from the ages of 17 to roughly 22. I can barely bring myself to think about them – half-arsed briefings on losing six lbs, walking in the countryside, and house parties I’d attended. Before creating david writes things, I read them all back. After reading I deleted them, one by one, until they were wiped from existence. I didn’t want my legacy to be poorly written passages on how sad I was. I didn’t want to be remembered for that. I often think about why I even started them, what was I trying to say. Perhaps I wasn’t trying to say anything, perhaps I was trying to prove to myself that I could be a writer. That my experiences were worth sharing, that people would care what I had to say. Maybe that’s what I’m trying to do now. I used to tell my high school teachers that I wanted to be a writer, I wanted to create stories of great, challenged people doing great and challenging things. I studied it in university, and became nothing but bored. The passion had gone, I had no desire to read or to write. I can’t remember the last book I read, but I can assure you that I probably didn’t even finish it. A few people I studied with have now actually become writers, quite successful, and I can’t be happy for any of them, because I can’t be happy for me. I haven’t tried like they have, but I can’t help but feel I deserve a piece of their cake. I don’t know why, I’m just trying to be honest.

A few weeks ago, I thought about perhaps writing a collection of short essays and compiling them into a book. I found a website that I could publish them on for a steep but worthy price. I could create a pdf copy and send it out to my friends and family to read. I even created a mock design and showed some of my friends. The thought of having a published piece of work filled me with pride. A false sense of accomplishment I guess. I thought that could be my next little goal. And just like a rain drop on a lit match, the fire was gone. No spark to be found. Despite the down-trodden tone of this, this is the first time I have actually felt like I needed to write. I should be honest about this, if anybody is reading this, please know that it means the world to me. Even if you hate it, just reading it and me seeing the numbers grow, it gives me joy.

Whenever people I used to know contact me, they tell me my mother would be proud of me. I feel like telling them to go fuck themselves. What is there to be proud of, I think, sometimes I can’t even get out of bed. And then I see my original plan, still hanging on my living room wall, and I see the check marks. I see each tiny goal completed. I read back through some messages people have sent me, think of fun sentences I have written, think about that book. All of it brings me a tiny piece of happiness, like crumbs of a cake on a small plate. My passion may have gone for now, but I will continue to try and rekindle the spark. Bash my hands on the keyboard like two rocks above sticks. Even writing this now, it isn’t bringing me any joy, but perhaps it will be closer to finding out what exactly is my passion. Maybe writing is the key, maybe writing will be my living. Even if my mother wouldn’t be proud of me, I think I should be proud of me. For just completing my little goals, and reminding myself that the most important thing, is to try.

On creating my mock book of short personal essays, I wrote a little blurb for myself. I think I’ll end this piece with that.

David writes things because he is bored.
David writes things because he is good at it.
David writes things because he needs attention.
David writes things because he loves you.
David writes things hoping things will get better.
David writes things knowing things will get better.
David writes things. David writes things. David writes things.