The Things I Write When I Don’t Write Here

When you start your blog, you read all these things–tips and pointers and whatnot that are supposed to make you “successful”, or at the very least, not make you look like an illiterate dumbass. (I just spelled illiterate wrong and had to correct myself, by the way. Thought you’d like to know.)

One of the things they consistently say is “Don’t overshare,” or, put another way, “Don’t put your ‘best’ work on your blog.” It seems like practical advice, I guess, and I’ve followed it up until now.

But right now, I don’t know where else to put the parts I’m supposed to keep in. In this moment, I don’t know that I’m capable of holding back.

Frankly, I’ve been thinking about this post all day. It was on my mind this morning when my eyes fluttered open from a half-remembered dream. Maybe it wasn’t a conscious thought–I should blog this–but a hyphenated breath, choked out and stifled by a thought. A single thought.

I’m kidding myself.

I can’t show one side of myself and remain an honest person. I can’t reign myself in.

I’ve got to put more than the occasionally passionate post up, or the ridiculously weird, possibly-gin-fueled ramble.

So, here’s something softer. Deeper. Less snark and more spark. Or something that doesn’t sound so pretentious and annoying. A glimpse of the things I write when I don’t write here. It’s a different sort of world:

Where does the night end and the morning begin? Somewhere in that loosely threaded daydream, or nightmare, seaming into the next like a sloppy, golden, flighty thing. A thing that slips through fingertips before it can be grasped at. An idea, maybe. Nothing concrete. Gone before you even knew it was there. Missed before it was realized, before it was named.

That’s me. That’s now. That’s this moment. A deep-rooted ache that starts with a single crack and spider-webs out. A fault line. Soon, it’s a sickness. I can feel it in all of me. Or maybe those are just veins. But the blood is real. The pain is real.

I want to make people feel that. I want to channel that feeling into the world and have it acknowledged. Have it read. I want their eyes to widen and their hearts to open into a cavernous display of that full and heavy ache. The kind that only loss and gain can manage to create.

I want to connect ten thousand readers on a single word. A single sentence. A single hushed idea.

I want to transmit love and loss and tragic need into ten million hearts and souls.

I want to make some kind of difference.

I want to change one person.

Even if that person is only me.


2 thoughts on “The Things I Write When I Don’t Write Here

  1. Nothing like a writer who can convey and self-disclose in a way that we can identify with your insecurity, indecision and growing pains. We’ve all been there and maybe still there and a lot of us are aspiring writers in our own right.


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