I haven’t written—I mean really written—in a long time. And I just don’t know why the fuck I haven’t.
Okay, that’s a lie.
Writing is thinking. Thinking is feeling. Feeling means I’m digging up filthy, rotted memories that I buried along with their associated emotions.
Here’s the problem: I’m supposed to tell my stories. There are people who need to read them. There are people who need to heal, just like me, but they just can’t form the words, the sentences, the emotions.
We need to heal, so I need to write. But I’m stuck. Lazy. Busy. Blocked. I have half-written blog posts, fragments of poems, un-sent letters, chapters of a memoir. I just don’t know why the fuck I can’t finish them.
Okay, that’s a lie, too.
I’m terrified that none of my words will matter. I’m terrified that I’ll be alone and knee-deep in a quagmire of my own verbosity, heart exposed, words ineffectual.
Until now, my excuses have been enough to keep most my stories entombed. But I have some beautiful tales to tell. Real-life, wipe-your-eyes, accounts of love and faith and hope.
I got a lot of shit I have to unearth first—the old clay-hard memories that I still haven’t processed.
Guess I better get a sturdy shovel.