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splinterswerve
Calgary, Alberta, Canada
splinterswerve.hotmail.com
by Vonny Fast
So now I get to stare at a blank screen and begin to scroll letters from left to right. Why? Because I told someone significant that I would start. Just start. And because somewhere in the depths of my being, there is a writer lurking.
She’s young, maybe wise at times, complicated, yet still playful, and distracts herself with celery sticks and hummus, washing the last cutting board and piece of Tupperware – there are no more dirty dishes. And while she’s been asking herself all day “what should I write about”, as if some divine inspiration would hit her or the creative process she’s supposed to figure out would become suddenly clear, she’s come up with…this. Writing about the one thing no one really cares to hear about: herself.
But then I think that maybe there’s a writer out there who feels the same anxiety when they’ve committed to themselves to put pen to paper. I know of writer’s block, maybe I’ve had a relationship with it all my life (I think one should have to write first to be able to say they’ve even experienced the curse). I know one thing: I have this view that it must be easier for others, they must have ideas in the first place, they must feel compelled to write. I don’t. I avoid it. And it always comes down to: what do I write about? —if I’m a writer, shouldn’t it be flowing through me, the vessel, from the universe. And then I read magazine articles, blurbs here and there, and the people that are writing out there are writing about the most simple things, life turned into lessons, observations and reflections, anything. And it becomes less mystical and I think that if I just sat down and did it, it would be okay.
One of the beautiful things about this whole thing, this process, is that no one judges you as your words fill the page. There is nothing to care about while writing. You don’t have to wait for a response and gauge yours accordingly. And if your inner judge kicks in, there’s always the backspace key. My voice must be just as valuable, my words and observations just as interesting.
Somehow I feel and know that this is where I’ll find my place. In words, in mine and in other people’s words—their truths that come out when they’re alone; when they stop being automatic in their responses. “I’m fine”. Lately I find, as ‘authentic’ as I try to be (can one try to be authentic?), I still am not ‘myself’ when a stranger in the elevator asks me how I’m doing. But here, with words, and others’ words....there is an honesty, some solace.
I see now that the struggle to figure out ‘what to write about’ is there because I’ve rarely allowed myself to pay attention, to read, to really hear what others feel compelled to write. And as I begin to ask myself ‘what to write’ and give myself permission to do this, I think ideas must come. Like selective attention – I’ll start seeing what I haven’t been seeing. At least that’s how I think it should go. And if I’m making it all up, who cares? I haven’t been struck by lightning yet, there’s no real price to pay for getting it wrong. And hell, maybe in this world, there is no right or wrong. What a crazy notion. Well, there you go then, it’s simple; I haven’t written about ‘anything’, yet I’ve written about everything. To me anyway. So enough said. Let’s begin.