Free-Writing Friday: The Who Cares Question

This is a piece I’m still working on. This is the first draft. Draft 2 was brought to my writer’s group. Draft 3 is being worked on in my brain.

This version was posted at ww.createwritenow.com a fabulous journal-writing website and resource on Tuesday.

I don’t get writer’s block. I don’t believe in writer’s block. When my eleven-year old says, “I don’t feel like cleaning” I say, “That’s the great part about it – the floor won’t mind. You can do it even when you aren’t in the mood.”

I feel the same about writing. Knowing I can do it even when I’m not inspired takes the pressure off. I can apply a work ethic to what others call writing block and words always come. What a relief.

Where I get stuck, is after writing, when I want to send my words off into the universe and am stung with the “Who cares?” question. It’s the critical voice who asks: What do you know? Who cares what you think? What makes you an authority on anything?”

Sharing writing is a radical act of self-acceptance. I care what you have to say. To risk rejection I have to say, “I think others might care,” and “I’ve got your back if it’s not true.”

When I write, I practice being o.k. with myself, as I am, not I wish I were.

The page is like the shower, that place where I am naked with cellulite and scars for a few moments before grabbing a towel. It is possible, even with words, to hide. I can choose to leave some parts out and emphasize others. But I will know if I’m lying.

To be powerful, the writing must be honest. That’s what makes it terrifying and powerful.

To get beneath my fear, or what Buddhist Cheri Huber calls, the “conditioned response, I write daily for ten minutes straight without lifting my pen off the paper, ignoring punctuation and grammar, which allows me instant access to my soul. Writing that way, for me, turns my pen into truth serum.

In that space, my soul gets to sing even if she’s off key.

My heart gets to long out loud even if it’s unrequited.

My brain gets a break from figuring, working and maneuvering.

I’m uncensored, unguarded and unrehearsed.

I’m not worrying about how I might seem or sound as a mother, daughter, neighbor or employee. I’m not reacting or responding as the person someone told me I was ten years ago. I’m not selling or projecting myself. Instead, I’m just being with myself being myself.

Maybe some people can stay connected to the deepest self without effort or practice. I am not one of them. It takes work and effort for me not stay dizzy or numb. On the page, I practice going in and under and take a break from being endlessly on – online, on guard or on the couch.

My tendency is to judge or shame whatever emotion arises and to call it “bad” or “wrong” even though I know it’s old coping style that might make me feel in control but not seen or loved. I might ache for a loving mother and show up for myself as a drill sergeant instead commanding me to get in line or order or at least to appear as though I am.

In my mind, I do this automatically but on the page, I can catch myself, I can hear myself. When I do, after I write, I can ask myself, “Would you talk that way to a friend or your child?” I would not. Even if the friend was talking about Spirulina as a smoothie supplement or my daughter is telling me about the 3rd book in the Divergent series. I’ll let her spoil the plot line and ruin the movie because her eagerness is more important than my suspense. With myself, I’m less tender and patient.

Writing, with myself and for myself, helps.

Reading intimate words also matter.

When Nick Flynn wrote Another Bullshit Night in Suck City about his mother’s suicide and his father’s homelessness and alcoholism, I’m happy he didn’t say, “This is too traumatic, dramatic and intense to write. No one will relate.” I have a homeless alcoholic father and reading his words about that experience made me feel relieved and understood. I love that book.

I remind myself that it doesn’t have to be everyone’s story to matter and understand what writers mean when they say, “If it reaches even one person” because I feel that way as well.

In the world of social media, when we can count the Tweets, shares and Likes (and I do that too), it can be easy to forget what brings us to the private space of the page, what has brought writers to the page long before computers or even typewriters – exploration of self and others for self and others, to be able on pages to run our fingers across the experiences of other people, to inhabit worlds and ideas and hearts as though they are soft rose petals between our own fingers, to feel them in and on and under our skin while seeing, smelling and inhabiting them. That’s what words can do.

Words are needed regularly, as solace and sustenance.

Even if my words are only for myself they have value.

The routine never has to get tired. For me, writing is like drinking coffee, making love and preparing a meal. I never wake up and say, “I”m so sick of coffee.” I don’t turn away from an orgasm thinking, “I’ve done that before.” When I want an easy breakfast I don’t rule out the toast and hard-boiled egg because someone else has had it before.

I’ve never thought, “coffee is so cliché” because today’s coffee isn’t yesterday’s cup even if all the ingredients are the same. The same is true with words.

Telling the truth to ourselves, about ourselves and for ourselves is important. Sometimes, I think we forget that our stories, lives, feelings and words matter. But when people are sharing, deeply, I am in bliss. I love to hear stories that friends and neighbors share, that writers and musicians share, those strangers on the radio share.

Stories matter. Lives matters. Words matter. Mine. Yours. Ours. Really, the question isn’t “Who cares? but “Does anything matter more?”

FREE-WRITE: 2 Parts

1. What blocks you from writing or sharing your words? Explore this issue in writing. What makes you hesitate? Do you feel like your grammar needs work or you aren’t an authority on anything or it’s “too late” because you haven’t done it all by now?

2. Once you know some of what’s making you feel stuck, can you write, again in free-write style, about what you might need in order to write more. Do you need more support? Or maybe more privacy? Do you need to shred your words or maybe have one or five people to share them with?