To write is simple, but painful. Think of lifting weights; the concept is an easy one, but difficult to execute and painful to do repeatedly. That is what writing feels like to me. It hurts.
Everything I write, especially on my blogs, originate in my heart and finds its way to my head where my mind must clothe those things in words. I am going to stick to describing them as things, because feelings they are not and they become thoughts only near the end of the whole process
Every word has a place, and though there may be several different ways to explain and describe things, my heart knows which word is the right one and only that word will do. On a good day I wake up with an opening line, a bridge (that’s what I call it) and part of a closing line. On a bad day, it’s many scrambled ideas that push for attention making me lose my train of thought.
No matter how simple or unimpressive my writing might be to whoever takes the time to read it, whatever they might think of my abilities, everything I put into words is who I am. If you could imagine taking a piece of your soul, shaping it into a word and then leaving it open to the scrutiny of the world, you would have an idea of how writing feels to me. Very melodramatic, hey? So what if I say that I cry because often I don’t want to write; I just can’t stand having to rip out another piece of myself and turning it into words? What if I say that every time I wrote a piece about a person, I carried them with me until I started the writing process; and they felt physically heavy? What if I say that to write about them, I had to stop being me for a while and become them a little bit? What if I say that things I could not possibly know are whispered into my heart and turned into words, things that eventually prove themselves true. I would be a nut, probably. So when that thing says: “You didn’t use the word I wanted you to in this sentence”, I just change it to the word it wants to shut it up.
Writing, even as I am doing it now, is painful. But writing has a reward like nothing else I have ever experienced in my life. That painful process of having to express what sits inside me, gives me a sense of accomplishment that nothing else can measure up to. I summit the Himalayas every time I hit that last full stop. And where it would seem that repeatedly taking something out of myself would deplete me, the process grows my inner territory regardless of what I write about or how many words I use. Like weight lifting, it is the tiny tear in the muscle from the strain of the weight that encourages the body to repair and make itself stronger.
So I write and by the time you read this, the pain is over and it’s been replaced by the sweet sensation of victory. And as much as I want everything I write to be favourably received, outside opinion is secondary. Going from a blank page to 500+ words in 24 minutes and getting the words exactly as they should be is the primary goal.
I am Fortunata, and I write because I must.