Memories hold you
Thoughts of you unfold me
I can still hear your voice
What about me, where will I go?
I can’t remember my response
I knew at that moment as
Your word nestled inside my heart
Christmas never comes without
Stirring up your words
I love how memories hold you
The sweetness of the bittersweet
Thoughts of you like that
It appears innocent and unassuming, fragile, thin, and benign. As a popular culture icon, it is formidable. It induces anxiety, fear, panic, and feelings of inadequacy. The blank page reduces creatives to blithering idiots, incapable of action. Alaa Al-Aswany expresses it well in the following video when he says writing is the “conflict between what you want to say and what you could say.”
Perhaps we should shift our thinking, channeling Michelangelo when he said, “The sculpture is already complete within the marble block before I start my work. It is already there; I just have to chisel away the superfluous material.” Maybe our story is there, fully written, and waiting for us to release it.
Staring into 2020, with its unlimited possibilities, we can find ourselves frozen, afraid to move. Any good writer holds their story’s plot in their mind before they face the blank page. Likewise, goals serve as…
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As I sat down to start writing this blog post two hours ago, I realized very quickly that writing this post was the absolute last thing I wanted to do in that particular moment. Which is why two hours have passed, and I am just now getting around to writing it.
Many forms of writing advice catered to the masses — including my own — consistently make the point that you can’t just stop writing when it becomes challenging. The truth is, technically, that you can do whatever you want. If you want to stop writing at any point, you can absolutely do so.
But if you are someone truly dedicated to your art, and you want to pursue it, but you are worried about having negative feelings toward your practice, first of all, know this is completely normal. Even I still feel disappointed when I get to a point…
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Everything is lyrical if you know when to pause
I can’t unfeel the way you said my name
or braided the stars into my hair
and whispered the night in forgotten tongues on my skin
The way bees know each bloom,
you found all of the wild flowers
blossoming through the cracks in the floor and under my skirt
And baby, you are the amen to my pretty sin
and my savage heartbreak