Today’s the 15th – which means we are half-way through the month already. I’m not quite sure how that happened; the month is moving by so fast. I have this week to work, and then the kids are out all the week after that for Thanksgiving vacation, and then the week after that starts December. So it feels like the month is practically over already.
There have been some days (like yesterday) when I really didn’t want to write. I wanted to go and hide my head and seek some kind of false comfort. But sitting down and putting words on the page made me realize that nothing was going to help, that what was wrong was me, and that seeking … something… anything… to try to make it better was not going to make me feel any better about the situation, and certainly was not going to actually make the situation any better.
Some days, like today, I have sat down feeling like I didn’t have anything to say. A lot of days this month I’ve worked off of what other people have put out there. But today I’ve been deliberately staying away from the net, trying to ground myself a little bit in the physical world. Now I’m wondering – how many times do I absent myself from the keyboard because I don’t think I have anything to say, versus how many times do I avoid it because of what I think writing will bring up into the light. Because one thing I do not have any illusions about is what writing does to me. The words start, and then the emotions follow my fingertips. Some of the most painful, most haunting things I’ve ever felt are immortalized in the electrons that make up this site. There are pieces of my personal truth that are touchstones on these pages, and I find myself going back to them again and again.
Like so many things in life, I don’t know if I like that or not. It gets it out of my head, and into words where I can examine it, feel it, turn it over and over and see what I think about it and how what I think about it changes over time. But at the same time, it never goes away. It’s always there and I can’t suppress it or ignore it or pretend that it never happened. There is proof, written in my own words, imbued with my own emotions, right there staring back at me from the screen. Accusing me sometimes of – I don’t know, not being the image I have of myself in my own head, I guess. It forces self-reflection, mirrors my own soul out where I’m forced to face it.
Sometimes ignorance is bliss. Sometimes it’s a murky darkness surrounding the unknown that you fear will consume you. I’m just not sure where the dividing line is between them. But writing every day exposes both. In the parlance of my profession, I’m not sure if that is a bug … or if it’s a feature.
Daily writing. Do you love it, or hate it? Does it bring up things that you didn’t realize you were thinking or feeling? Are you wishing that NaBloPoMo was already over, or celebrating that you’ve come this far?