In Act Two of My Fair Lady, Eliza Doolittle declares to Freddy Einsford-Hill that she's "so sick of words. I get words all day through, first from him, now from you." She want Freddy to take action - and "Show Me." While I understand the sentiment of don't talk, show, I've never been sick of words. I love words. Words make me wet - to put it bluntly. I love to read them, hear them, sing them, write them, play with them, invent them. Words, words, words....fabulous words.
So why is it that when I commit myself to sitting down and writing something specific - using my words to unleash my soul - that I suddenly can't find them. Or they seem foolish and empty. Or the universe steps in and says...no, you don't get to be a writer.
I've called myself a writer for years. I've written poems that I think are bloody fantastic. I've written short stories and treatments and short plays and outlines and ideas and blog posts until I'm sure there can't be anything left for me to say - nothing left to express. Yet there is this pull within me that says I still have more to do. More to say. My story isn't amazing or inspiring or tragic or comic. Except sometimes when it is. So why can't it find a form? A shape? An expression?
All this frustration is because I started out April so committed, so pumped up and focused and ready to get something accomplished. Then life...work, hurt knee, brother falls out of a tree and I spend every free hour at the hospital...exhaustion. Depression is right there ready to climb into my mind and negate every bit of progress I have made. Why am I so unwilling to cut myself some slack, let myself off the hook, celebrate what I have done and how far I have come?
I am passionate about poetry, libidinous about lingua, absurdly ape-shit for assonance and alliteration, and wild about words. I am a writer.