October 2007

Can I be honest for a minute? Just a single minute right now- everything I write is crap. I write and I write and I writeandiwrite. And still. When I read again the things that I type I am ashamed. Let’s face it- I’m completely self-absorbed. All I write about is myself. My feelings. Situations I find myself in. And everytime I reread what I’ve written, all I can think is Who Would Want To Read This Crap? If a person didn’t know me, they would stop reading after the second self-indulgent phrase. Which would most likely come at the end of the first cadence. How is it that I can accept so completely the writings of others? When I read someone else’s story I accept it as at least valid almost immediately. At least most of the time. I don’t even accept my own writing. . .how can I expect anyone else to?
I saw writing on a garage in Berkeley a while ago that I’ve thought of often. I’m thinking of it now and shaming myself for being so egotistical. Someone wrote in big, white, spray-painted letters “Write for yourself and you’ll always have an audience,” right on the front of a shabby old house. I don’t even remember exactly where it is. Why do I crave an audience so much? Must I be exhibitionist? Do I want fame? Not exactly. I want to contribute something. AND I want to be able to live as I like to live. AND I think that if I had a posh audience I’d feel like my writing was more valid than I feel like it is now.
I know. Wrong answer. I can’t do it for anybody at all. Not even for me. I just have to do it. Whatever that means. Thanks. I knew that you’d listen. You always do.
You Know.