Pouring Rain

I haven’t posted for awhile.

I was talking to someone the other day about writing, and we both admitted we didn’t really like it. I always thought I liked writing until I studied it in college and pursued it professionally. When you learn how to write the “right” way, it’s just no fun anymore.

Grammatical errors glare at me; sloppy syntax sickens me; spelling mistakes miff me; alliteration annoys me. I can’t just write and forget about it. It has to be perfect – every time - and the words just drill into my soul and I just can’t stop revising.

It’s called obsession and makes me want to drink. A lot. I wrote an article for The Other Press two years ago called “The Six Qualities of a Writer” and I keep referring to them. They have become a religion, rules to live by. They keep ringing true.

That is my disclaimer these days. I told my other friend who is a full-time creative writer that writing depresses me. He reminded me that comes with the territory – that is what being a writer is all about. Being permanently depressed, obsessive compulsive, alcoholic and anxious? I mean, I always knew that but now I’m realizing that is not fun and not cool as a permanent career choice. I thought writing would take away those symptoms, but lately it seems to enhance them.

Writing seems to bring out the dark thoughts and places in my mind. A writing instructor once told me that when you first start writing, you are at the bottom of a well of grief and you have make your way up through the murkiness to the surface of healing and happier places.

I’ve been swimming in these waters for five years. I wonder when this well of grief will drain away to dry contentment. I guess I’m not finished yet. The muddy waters are just too deep to be stirred. Someone toss me a coin.

Well of Grief

by David Whyte

Those who will not slip beneath
the still surface on the well of grief

turning downward through its black water
to the place we cannot breathe

will never know the source from which we drink,
the secret water, cold and clear,

nor find in the darkness glimmering
the small round coins
thrown by those who wished for something else.