Photo by Robert Bye on Unsplash

Writing on the curve

Everyday I write a bit faster. I express concrete and flexible thoughts, like cornerstones and sails in the wind. I’m finding that Aries season is drawing out the plasticity in my mind — is showing me the colors and surprises in my writing.

I am seeing my narrator’s voice come through in a new light, from reflective and pragmatic to silly and ambitious and with complex thoughts that often leave me muttering in the quiet of my home. I’ve written more personal narratives and essays in these past few months because not unlike the bulbs brandishing their green stalks on the banks of the creek down the street from me, I am awakening in spring, and it seems I have a lot to say.

I am not a fiction writer — at least not often. Maybe never, maybe always. I enjoy personal essays that drabble into poetry and stanzas and think about reading them aloud to an audience or in an audiobook — someone listening to me talk about spite and energy and sex in their ears as they walk their dog or go out on a walk to help treat their depression. Typical things.

I believe in cyclical things, I believe there are ebbs and flows, returns and absences in everything we do. Some call this karma, for others its miracles and trials. My cycles vary with the moon, the stars, and perhaps most especially the weather. I don’t wonder aloud much, but I have found at this exact point in the cycle I am full of wonderings. I am waking up and gravitating to my notebook each morning, I am dreaming vivid dreams and perhaps for the first time, I am truly listening.

I am bent on listening and focusing and paying attention because I am a complex person who is prone to manipulating and monopolizing conversations. This is born out of my fear of feeling my feelings and disappointing people. I am afraid of what might happen in settings when I’m not poised to entertain, or worse, primed to be entertaining. So I listen and ask questions and wait for the awful pauses between breath and thought and wait to see how a person might fill them. I wait with baited breath, that’s something people might say — hmm?

I have dedicated much of my writing to solving a problem. Along the curve I would point to September, when I feel my most scholarly, most pro-active. Virgo and Libra season often pull this out of me as I make heavy-hitting decisions about relationships, jobs and what I want to be doing with my life (changes as often as the wind changes direction, Poppins). My writing is informative, instructive. You don’t care about me or my personal musings (or at least, not yet anyways).

I’m supposed to write to solve your problem, reader. Did you know that? They often encourage creators to identify a problem in their audience, a need to be solved. It’s very service oriented and needy. You, longing for information, education, and me crafting an articulate response and providing it. You, disappearing back into the web until I resurface again, a source of comfort or sustenance for you. It’s quite romantic if you overthink the whole thing.

But where is my writing in this current cycle? My writing is becoming rebellious, callous. I’m tempted to write the scariest, angriest things. Spring came in like a lamb and has emerged a lion, like some fucked up animorph butterfly to mammal crysalis that’s smushed up my guts into a bug smoothie and re-crafted me with bones and marrow.

My writing wants to be threatening, loud, fictional and mystical and crude. I want to say fuck and break the fourth wall and talk directly to you. I suppose in some ways this may be a rebellion, or it may be a part of a cycle. It’s hard to know, with all these timelines swirling around my decision making, what’s creating ripples and what’s purposeful and firm and stable. None of these are words I often feel inside.

Maybe this new writing has emerged because I have new things to say. I’m not interested in being interesting. I’m interested in speaking and saying and writing and putting it out there. I’m interested in being more, shoving my writing off a cliff to see if it has wings and jeering when the glue melts down my back and I’m forced to reconcile that I’ve flown too close to this metaphorical sun.

You see what I did there? I want this writing to draw and suck people in like a personal gravity that feels dark and violent and seductive. I want people to read these words and be surprised and delighted at the variety and new-ness. I want to contain the multitudes I consume so I can forge new paths where I have not walked before.

If not in this moment, along this curve — if not me, then it might never come to pass.



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