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Discovery

January 29th, 2013

diarywriting

I found your writing.

You call yourself a writer but where are your words? Why are they hidden?

Writer is a big word in my book. You don’t just throw that around lightly.

When I was in college, learning about writing by real writers, they said you aren’t a writer until someone pays you for your words. That one stuck with me over the years.

I admit it: I’m worried about this writer business. What if you’re better? What if you are
a painfully bad writer? Where do we go from there?

Some writers dwell within the neatly spaced paragraphs of their published work and others just make a mess of their keyboards.  Do the good writers even know they’re good? Do bad writers realize they are bad? Is everyone really just a scared kid on the inside?

I think It’s like that with painters and piano players, too.

They all turn themselves inside out to show you their guts. Sometimes it too much to bear, all this beauty and blood.

I found your writing.

It scared me it was so good.

Now, 

I’m twisted inside out.

I feel as if I’ve taken a secret lover. I can’t breathe. I know too much, too fast.  

I feel your pain, I said out loud.

But I don’t feel your pain.  I don’t know your pain. What I mean is: Your words made me feel my pain. That is the only pain I know. And I wanted to take that hurt child — was it me or you? — into my heart. Maybe that’s what they mean by compassion.

 Maybe I can trade jealousy for admiration. Maybe I can break the wild horses that run uncontrolled across my mind.

I want to take a picture of this moment so I can see myself with open eyes.

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