Or am I?
As co-founder of Writing Our Way Home (and as a human being), I want you all to like me. I want to get lots of clicks on my articles. I want to persuade you that our e-courses are worth spending money on. I want to tell you exactly what you want to hear.
As a writer, I don’t want any of these things. I want to tell my truth.
A deep grief rose through me this morning. It bloomed as tears. I’m leaving some of the truth out in my writing. And it’s hurting me. It’s stopping up my pen. The ink, the life, the breath, the blood, won’t flow.
I tried to explain it to Kaspa (and to myself). I said that I’ve lost my way. I want my writing to be more ‘savage’. I don’t want to be so nice all the time. I want to say ‘fuck’ sometimes, and to show you road-kill and ugly disappointment. I want to confess that I’m not working on my novel, and that I haven’t been for a very long time. I want to show you how mean I can be.
I’m writing this blog post in the hope that it might clear something for me. I want to rediscover my safe space, a refuge where I can start again. Take a pen, and a notebook, and let the words that want to find me, find me.
I’m a writer. I’m writing my way home. I want to help you to write your way home. But it won’t always be pretty.
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