I’ve been wanting to pick up my writing pen again for a while now. With all my recent life changes and busy schedules, I’ve barely had time or patience to sit down and breathe – let alone write! It seems so hard now to put words to paper – my brain needs a lot of exercise.
At the beginning of 2016, I self-published a book of memoirs written by my late grandmother. Editing and printing that book brought me so much joy, revitalizing that need and desire I always felt to create. Now that I’ve “published” someone else’s book, I really ought to “publish” my own. My immediate response to this need is to “publish” a small book of poems I wrote back a few years ago. (By publish, I mean print using Blurb.com) However, there’s an irrational fear holding me back with these poems.
In part, they weigh heavily of juvenile emotions. They were written during a hard time of my life when I was trying to figure out how to work through anxiety and depression. They follow no structure, and as I read over them I can almost feel a sense of pulling as the poems progress – my attempt to add fluidity to the structure, I suppose. I have thought of publishing them with the explicit understanding of their naiveté, with the underlying purpose to maybe reach out to teenagers going through those emotions for the first time.
There is a part of me that wants to continue writing poems, to add to this collection – and to maybe add a more mature perspective now? However, as soon as I go to start writing, I am blocked – how does one write poems when one is not full of emotion? How did Wordsworth get to the point where his poems about nature were actually understandable? I do not know how to approach this new stage of writing. Perhaps I am not at that level yet.
Alas, as Jane Austen wrote, I will have to practice!