I have an urge to write the way some people, I imagine, have an urge to get high. When I have the need to and don’t do it, my thoughts get all jumbled and backlogged and I can’t think about much else. I’ll start typing parts out of choronological order on my iPad, or making an outline on my computer at work. I’d just tell someone, but telling them to a friend just isn’t the same. There’s something to be said for the act of typing, even if it’s just a long email to Kewon. (He gets a lot of unedited, error-filled emails about stuff I have to get “on paper.”) This doesn’t happen too often since I make time each day to write. But I wondered what happens to people who have the same urge, and don’t write or don’t have the time. What do they do when they need to get it all out?
I woke up in the middle of a weeknight from a bad dream. I was up from 2-6AM afterward. I was scared, totally out of sorts. I could describe further, but I won’t today. After some much needed sleep before work, this was the first message I saw when I woke up in the morning exhausted.
As you know by my erratic posting sometimes, I let the blog slide when I’m caught up. Sometimes I debate quitting it. K.Reagan can be time consuming and a responsibility that I can’t always afford to have with my demanding work schedule. I get a fair amount of e-mails and texts when I miss more than a day and frankly, it can be a lot of pressure to come up with something to write daily. There are times when I think all the good stories I have to tell have been told. Other times, I’ve got something to talk about, but the words aren’t coming or I want to tell it, but feel like I can’t. It’s tough to be judged. To write about fuck ups in the past, well, I learned and grew. But current fuck ups? It’s hard to have thousands of people reading (even if I don’t know most of them) and thinking I’m an idiot. It’s not just the story you judge or comment on, it’s my life, it’s me.
Always having “what am I going to write about?” hanging over my head can be daunting. I don’t want to not meet expectations by not producing anything or worse, doing something sub par that I struggled to get out and then you think it sucks. I’m an artist and I’m sensitive about my shit. (Cue Erykah.) So to tell my stories and have someone find sustenance in it…. It amazes me. It gives me a purpose when I’m not always sure there is one. Words are powerful as I know from writing here almost every weekday and I’ve bruised a few feelings, sometimes my own. Thank you for telling me that they have an impact on you, even if you’re reading for the drama or even if you’re taking something deeper away. Your words made a bad morning, brighter. I keep the email that alerted me of your comment in my phone.
“You make me want to burn my notebook.”—MistyBlue
She (assuming, since most of the readers are) told me where the line was from, but she didn’t have to. love jones is one of my favorite films. And I remember the scene vividly when Nina said it. It was the first date and she was talking about Sonia Sanchez. I’ve never been a big Sanchez fan, or a big poetry fan. (Ace is though. She extols Sanchez’s brilliance.) So I know she’s great and I respect anything that passionately moves people.
Writing has always come easy to me. Most (but not all) posts just pour out along with the ways to set the story up and the metaphors that come in them that make what I write so called witty and funny. I get an idea, I punch it out on my IPad during my morning duty at work. Because it usually comes so easy, I question sometimes if it’s good. I mean the good stuff is supposed to take hard work, right? Tons of revisions, and a few days to think on it and edit properly? Some stuff I’ve put my heart into and it gets a blah response Other things I bang out in an hour and it gets 30 comments. Go figure. As long as you keep reading (an indication that it’s good to you), then I’ll keep writing. Misty Blue, I’m honored that you would evoke those words to me. I needed that. Thank you.
Texhibitionist spent a part of her Saturday night reading K.Reagan. With all the options of what to do for a young woman (again assuming) on a Saturday night, I’m humbled and honored that you spent time here. I don’t always think what I do here is that good. I read some other people’s stuff (like Terry McMillian) and sometimes think “why try?” She makes me want to burn my notebook. I remember reading Waiting to Exhale in one sitting when I was a kid.
My Mom had bought the book home, and I saw it on the counter. One Saturday afternoon I was bored and picked it up, laid on the couch and started reading. I laid on the living room couch consuming McMillian’s words the entire day until I was done. (In retrospect, I have to wonder why my Mom let me read that. It’s totally inappropriate for a kid.) In my recollection, it took about 10 hours. If Texhibitionist read for the time her comments were clocked, it was 40 or so minutes she spent with my story and my words. You will never know how much that meant to me, especially tonight.