Wednesday, February 23, 2005

Flatulence

Most of this week I've spent mulling over ideas and writing them down. I'm sick to death of my own voice. When I read over things I've written I feel sheepish, at best; physically ill and repulsed, at worst. I'm mentally exhausted. I sat down to read a book this afternoon and promptly fell asleep.
Most disconcerting in this is the fact that I have mostly been writing as part of an effort of discipline: writing daily because I enjoy it and want to do it.
I know writing is hard work but I never expected I'd want to disavow everything I write.
It feels like a collosial waste of time and effort, culminating in too much vapor.
I wonder if career writers ever feel this way. What do I honestly have to say that is worth coaxing into words and lines?
I need to go wash my dishes or talk to someone with something really significant to say (a child perhaps?).
Whose genius idea was it to start up a blog???

3 comments:

laura said...

Not to sound cheesy, but I think you are a good writer. I always enjoyed getting emails from you. Yeah, there is always going to be room for imporvement, no one is perfect. I think (and need to do this for myself:) you shouldn't be so hard on yourself. I need to say this to myself more aften because we all know that I am the Eternal Reigning Ice Queen.
Here is a little part of this poem I thought I might share:

If I came out of the earth,
if I was born from a womb,
pitiful and poor,
it was only that I would become
the nightingale of the pitiful,
echo of bad luck,
to sing and to repeat
to those who must hear me
everything of pain, everything of poverty,
everything of earth.

...I sing in grief's voice,
my people, for your heroes:
your desires like my own,
your misfortunes that have
the same metal and tears,
your suffering in the same grain
and of the same wood,
your thought and my mind,
your heart and my blood,
your pain and my laurels.
Life looks to me like
a barricade of nothingness.

...I am here to live
while the soul permits,
and here to die,
when the hour arrives,
in the veins of the people
now and forever.
Life is a lot to swallow,
death is only a gulp.

Rachael said...

Thanks, Laura. I don't think I'm worried about perfection as much as I feel sort of empty and spent. It isn't that I don't think I could (eventually) get the words to sounding nice, it's that I'm tired of the words themselves. Try capturing in words the smell of a baby's head or the pain of separation or that elusive element in love by which you know that you will always love, until world ends, and even then. Some do it better than others, but none so well that it is not inadequate.

laura said...

i'm sure their are plenty of people that feel that way. i do, sometimes about my career.

"If you're not failing every now and again, it's a sign you're not doing anything very innovative."

-Woody Allen