When
I decided to take a hiatus from my weekly blogs, a few things happened that I
did not expect. The first was that I
stopped writing regularly. I had hoped I would have the discipline to write
each week, maybe even each day without knowing that I had something to publish
– a deadline. That did not work at
all. And that was bad. Not just for me, but for those around me that
had to deal with the surge in my reservoir of thoughts, notions, emotions, tension,
and other inexpressible cognitive sludge that I now know enters a writer’s mind
and must regularly be allowed to flow from behind the levee of the mind into
tangible words before the rising contemplations spill over the dam, or around
it, or take the thing down completely in a fury of words and thoughts and
actions commonly known as “losing it”.
Luckily, I did not in fact “lose it”.
But I do believe that the sirens and warning bells were going off in my
head that the level of trapped writing was getting dangerously high by the end
of 2011. I simply needed to write. My wife bought me a journal during my
respite with an inscription on the cover that sums up my plight nicely: “You
don’t write because you want to say something, you write because you’ve got
something to say.” This was not a
question of want – it was a question of need.
Which
leads to my second discovery. I am a
writer. No, really, I am! I was reminded by family members that my
writing did not actually start just a year or two ago. It started back in kindergarten and first
grade with stories I would tell and write about the adventures of my best
friend and I launching off the school swing set and landing in various parts of
the world. I was the writer and he was
the illustrator of these adventures. I
am unsure when my writing subsided, but I have an idea that it was when certain
teachers tried to corral my wandering dialogues into what they considered
correct sentences, paragraphs, and coherent thoughts. I do not hold resentments or grudges against
them for this – I’m sure they believed they were doing their jobs as teachers,
but for me it was not about spelling, or grammar, or correct writing
formation. It was a process to
communicate my internal dialogues and perspective on the world, and I could
have “or should have” cared much less about whether that equaled an “A”, or
“B,” or even a “D-“ in the academic world.
But I did care. I cared enough to
try conforming my thoughts into the “right” way to communicate through written
language. That felt as comfortable as a
root canal with no numbing agent. So
then, eventually, I stopped completely.
I
did journal occasionally throughout the years, and it is interesting to look
back at my thoughts now. My first
journal’s cover had Snoopy with his typewriter sitting on top of the doghouse
typing away. I loved that Snoopy started
every story he wrote with “It was a dark and stormy night…”. He was also constantly being rejected by
publishers and turning to his friend Woodstock the bird for consolation. I wanted to write like Snoopy. He was my first writing role model. My Snoopy journal also had a lock with a
flimsy little key that kept my most private thoughts private. I thought that was really cool. I filled up that journal with entries about
Halloween costume plans, Christmas list wishes, and how incredibly spoiled my
older sister seemed to be. I mean she
had a canopy bed for crying out loud! A
canopy bed just like a princess would sleep in!
I like to look back at what I wrote during those years
occasionally. In some weird way it
reminds me of who I am, or maybe who I was, or possibly even who I was made to
be.
Over
the years, I kept other journals, but most of them started off strong and lost
steam after a month or two of regular check ins. I also had a habit of journaling during my trips
and travels after high school and throughout college, and I am glad I can go
back now and reminisce on those adventures through my writing. My most vivid memories and writings are
always of the outdoors – the wild parts where we would hike, or camp, or strip
down and jump in an frigid stream just for the bragging rights to the
experience. Reviewing my writing during
this period of life also reminds me of who I am, but it is also a reminder of a
time in my life when I left the strait and narrow road and began to get lost in
the weeds. The Moral Compass of my
younger years was replaced with vanity, false pride, and an insatiable need to
cover up any struggles and problems with addictive substances and
behaviors. Some of the journal entries
during this time in which I thought I was describing “fun” behavior are
difficult and painful to reread. My
behaviors were deeply damaging, not only to myself, but to many around me. And yet I know I must not forget them. Because they remind me of who I became, or
who I came to believe I was. And I
remember very clearly while reading about those times not liking that person much
at all. It’s like looking at a picture
in which only you remember how miserable you were at the time when it was
taken, and vowing to yourself that you will never again ruin a photo by
allowing negative emotions to take control of you.
When
I began sobriety it was again suggested that I journal regularly – so I did,
for awhile. And it proved very
therapeutic to get the pent up thoughts and my twisted views of life down on
paper. The 12 Steps of recovery suggests
this type of review and examination. It
wasn’t easy. It felt like talking the
sharp point of a round metal shovel, burying it deep into my skull, and digging
around until I had removed all of the pebbles, stones and boulders that “The
Program” calls defects of character. And
did I mention that after finding out what they were, I was “suggested” to share
them all with someone else? And I can’t
leave out the best part – then I was “suggested” to change them – to change
them ALL! For me, this also meant frequenting
the couches of various therapists why they chewed on their pen caps and
followed up on my deepest and most secret thoughts with a contemplative “I
see,” or “And how did that make you feel?” These same therapists also
“suggested” that I employ the wonderful world of pharmaceuticals during this
time when the shovel was sticking out of my skull. And some of the medication helped. And some of it did not. And through it all I knew – I knew from
somewhere deep inside myself that somehow this all had to do with keeping the
flow of thoughts moving in my life. I
knew that for me stagnation was the problem – the enemy – the person I am not.
So
my purpose with this writing is to open the floodgates before my head explodes,
and I hope you all will do the same. I
am not trying to convince anyone to journal or to begin writing if it is not
part of who you are. I want to encourage
you to discover and then to respect and begin what it is in your life that you
have “got” to do. In my case, the quote
on my newest journal summed it up for me – I’ve “got” to write. For me, writing is a necessity, an essential,
a part of who I am and how I was made. I
can choose to ignore it if I want to, but it is not going to change the fact
that it is in me, continuing to build up and look for an outlet, to look for a
way around the dam I have built to contain it.
I have thought of more things to write about in the last few months than
I ever thought possible. I wrote some of
the basic ideas down in my journal, I created some structures and outlines for
the thoughts, but it really wasn’t enough to keep me balanced and sane. I found myself irritable, and tense, and
feeling an overall malaise with the humdrum regularity with which life seemed
to be plodding by. I was not acknowledging,
or respecting, or rejoicing in the fact that I am a writer. I need to write. And not for money, or prestige, or for any
other motive than that I have got something to say. Period.
Maybe exclamation point?
So,
back to the main point – if there is one at all. I’m back at the keyboard. I need to be.
I need deadlines and structure and most of all I need to keep the
thoughts in my brain flowing and for me that means to write. We are all starting a time of resolutions,
and renewal, and rekindling of that small but powerful heat from the embers
deep inside the soul, the essence, that tell you who you are and what you need
to do. What you must do. What you have “got” to do during your
fleeting stay in this wonderful, tragic realm.
I hope that you begin to fan these flames with the complete confidence
that it is not a decision based on what you want to do, but what you must do,
what you were called to do – made to do – what you’ve “got” to do.
Happy
2012 everyone – let’s get moving!
Not surprisingly I made a resolution to journal in 2012. I also feel writing is something I need to do, and feel energized yet exhausted doing. You have given me the kick in the butt I needed.The power of the written word amazes me. Yesterday I went back to a piece written by a special loved one on the occasion of my retirement and reread it, and felt much better. I was mourning the loss of a loved one, and those words helped so much. The written word is so powerful. I will start journaling today. Thanks. (You had bunk beds, with Snoopy wallpaper!!!!)
Thanks for this! I feel exactly the same way about art-making. I came out of the womb with a crayon and have not stopped “making stuff” since I was a little kid. When I don’t, I get bottled up, too, and can’t deal with anything. One of my favorite things I got from the 12-step program I did (as a family member of an alcoholic) is to “Show Up and Be Willing.” That’s the first thing I write and hang up in any studio space in which I make art.
Happy New Year!
Good-start writing-the world needs you!XO
Brian, Have loved watching this evolution of yourself blossom. I am forwarding your prose to my daughter, who has decided that she cannot not write as she attends her poetry graduate work @ Columbia.I believe I am a reader , so please keep writing.