under the deck

I mostly write fiction because it offers a chance to get away from reality and provides an opportunity to exercise my imagination. Not to mention I love words and just… well, I love writing. I wanted to be an English/Creative Writing major in tenth grade. I’m thinking about taking some writing courses at Emerson. It may not come as naturally as art does, but it’s still an enjoyable and fairly painless thing to do.

It’s not that I dislike writing nonfiction but for obvious reasons I’ve only really written about neutral or positive life experiences such as a sublime moment in the high desert or “meeting” my spirit guide in high school or plain old metaphysical rambling.

Lately (lately here meaning for the last year and a half) I’ve been dabbling in the not so enjoyable moments of my past. I’ve only gotten as far as outlines and a handful of paragraphs for two pieces, and collecting bits of information from my peers for another (local friends, please tell me everything you think is relevant about your time at the old Kenyon building. I’ve seen/heard/felt unspeakable things there).

But it’s hard. It’s hard to reflect on failure and terrible mistakes and the things that could have been. Sometimes I’ll open the document to make some progress and just lay there, curled up on the floor and staring helplessly at the words knowing that it’s all said and done. I know that everything happens exactly as it is meant to happen, but it’s still difficult to swallow all of that. I’m hoping that writing my way through this mud pit of emotions and regrets will grant the closure that some people will never give me.

After all, the golden rule of Capricorns… If you want it done right, do it yourself.