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Sunday, August 8, 2010
8:50 PM  Eat, Pray, Love... Write

I'm reading 'Eat, Pray, Love" and it's making me want to write again.  Not that I haven't wanted to write these past few months, it's just that I haven't been doing it.  I'm not sure what happened, but all of a sudden I got super self-conscious about my writing.  I would feel inspired to write about something, and almost immediately my inner-critic would say, No, that's dumb. So I stopped. But I still wanted to write. 

Desperate for an idea my inner-critic wouldn't automatically reject, I read back over things I'd already written, something I often do when I'm in need of inspiration.  What I found were the mundane - often whiny - self-concerned tales of a 20-something-year-old girl. 

God, you sound so annoying.  Who would want to read this? the inner critic asked.

So, I stopped.  And I was lying, to you and myself, when I said I had writer's block because I didn't.  I've been inspired every single day.  It's just that I stopped, and I didn't know how to start again.

I think part of growing up is accepting , no, embracing your insecurities.  A fairly frequent complaint I've heard from friends who have read "Eat, Pray, Love" is that, while they enjoyed her conversational way of writing, she came across as a little self-centered.  It was all a bit self-indulgent.  Sometimes I wonder if I come across the same way when I write.

But, you see, I don't think she comes across as self-centered or selfish or self-indulgent at all.  It's a book about a time in her life -- how could she not talk about herself the whole time?  She tells you it's about a personal journey of hers from the very beginning.  As readers, we knew what we were getting into when we picked it up.

Anyway, this is a blog about a time in my life.  And while I publish what I write to the Internet, I don't write for other people.  I write for myself and I publish it because I like to communicate - I think it's nice when other people can relate.  And so I'm embracing the fact that it all may come across as a little self-indulgent.

I was reading "Eat" on the train back to New York today and was inspired to write a poem about my non-writer's block... yes, I wanted to write about not writing.  It does not rhyme.  There is no rhythm to it.  I'm not even sure it qualifies as a poem.  And I was going to apologize for all of this when I realized I have to stop apologizing for things that I haven't done wrong.

My inner-critic can suck it.

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It seems the only thing I remember how to write
are to-do lists.
Ordered, numbered, never complete -
A reminder of all the things I have failed to accomplish,
so I never get too pleased with myself...
or at all.
Instead, I have dreams that I'm throwing up
but nothing will come out.
It gets stuck.
I wish I'd give myself a break.

Love,
Tara