I want to write.

I don't know how to do what I would like to see my future self doing. I like writing. I spend most of my time so caught up in my own thoughts that it seems natural for me to write. I overanalyze. Actually, I overanalyze every...single...situation...that I am in any small way connected to. I make up crazy what if horror filled scenarios that might end my life, cause me to fight for survival, or potentially maim me in some way practically daily. I create personalities and lives for people I meet in random circumstances that enable me to explain the behaviors they briefly exhibit. I constantly talk for Leah and Latimore...full conversations that enable those around us to "understand" what they must be thinking. I do all of this habitually, without trying or even wanting to in some cases, and yet when I sit down to write...I'm blank. Words flutter around. Sentences pass by. Single words plead with me to use them..."build me" they call out...and nothing.

I'm not sure where my imagination goes when I try to pull from her. It's as if she has encapsulated herself in one of those "safe rooms" with the access tightly sealed, permitting no entry or exit, and for the millionth time I can't remember the goddamn secret code to let me get close to her. This makes me think she's shy...wary of anyone wanting to know what she's really like. I gather she's scared of how she'll be received.

Actually, it makes sense that my imagination still hasn't left her wallflower stage since it took me forever to function "normally" in social settings. Well, that's not completely true. It's still hard for me. I just wish there was a way for me to convince her to just be herself so that people could get to know her better...to allow me to do what I feel like I can do. If only I could remember the stupid password. Fucking safe room.

Honesty makes writing real right? The writers and books and stories I have connected with share that single trait and little else as far as content. I understand a true writer hides nothing, holds absolutely nothing back, and it is this creativity, this trust in self, that enables a writer to make words beautiful.

However, my writing classes in college elicited very little tangible suggestions to make writing happen. "Write what you know" they said. "Skeet skeet" they mouthed, as if it were that easy.

I don't think writing can be taught per se. I mean obviously the basic organization, structure, and positioning of words can be instructed upon. Providing support and examples to make ideas real and relatable can be taught. I have spent a large portion of my teaching career simply trying to break down the process of writing to make it attainable for my students. But the quality of writing that comes with a sincere appreciation for the craft...this is not something that is teachable in the sense that there is a specific formula for all to follow. An imagination is what challenges formulaic, boring writing and this is exactly why I'm struggling. I feel as though I'm constantly breaking new ground, testing out different versions of my voice and content only to discover similar feelings of frustration. My imagination is eluding my desire to write stories and books...to write as my occupation and not just a hobby.

Open up the doors you selfish little bitch. I need some help down here.


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