The Writer Who Forgot How To Write.

I think the title alludes to what exactly this piece encapsulates, but my dear friends, I forgot how to write.

Even now as I write this on a packed rush-hour train home, I’m trying to peel open my brain and find what exactly to write. Over the past few months, it has felt like there have been words bristling on the tips of my fingers, but I simply cannot get them out. I start a piece and ruminate over the words, rolling them around my tongue, tasting them and then… Promptly swallowing them, not quite sure if they’re…right. Can writing ever be ‘right?’ I suppose, yes and no, but right now it feels a little bit like my creative voice is floating above me like a kite I’ve just let go of and I can’t quite lift my feet off of the ground to catch it.

That’s the problem I suppose when it feels like your words quite literally flow from your heart onto shrouded pages on the internet, when the metaphorical heart stops, so does the flow. Lately, I’ve been trying to embrace creativity again and find what makes my heart and soul sing. Travelling to a place I’ve never been before and allowing myself to be a true tourist, waltzing through cobbled alleyways with walls imbued with a language I cannot speak. Sitting quietly with a coffee in a silent, empty café, people watching and occasionally glancing down to read the small book on my lap, waiting to desperately find myself in the lukewarm dregs of coffee pooled at the bottom of the acme cup. Striking up a conversation with the older kindly faced lady sat opposite me on the delayed train, and discussing all things faith, age differences and her children who live in Barnet. Smiling at people who pass by me instead of looking down at my feet British – style. Finding myself sardine-line at the Tate ogling a Picasso or standing face to face with a Monét, wondering how on earth anyone could be so patient as to paint a gigantic board of flowers over and over and over. Creativity comes from so many places, we just have to push ourselves to look a little harder, search a little deeper, read a little more and foster deeper relationships with one another.

There is a distinct lack of freedom that comes with your public domain becoming that bit more public, and it means that I don’t quite have that freedom to write as freely and as openly as I used to, which in a way challenges me as I have had to learn to weave my honest thoughts into words between intricate unassuming metaphors, waiting for the reader to grasp that ‘aha!’ Moment. Another thing that has kept me hostage writing-wise is that sometimes we think writing has to be a certain way, it must be orderly, structured, have bullet-pointed lists that point the reader to exactly where they should be, but the more I’m writing this… I feel that writing is it itself inherently personal. Streams of word vomit erupting from the tips of our fingers, bleeding onto pages, be they digital or physical, etching out our thoughts, feelings, and truest selves. Writing in it can be short or long, blunt, quick and punchy à la Churchill or twirling sentences dotted with adjectives and endless poetic metaphors à la Kahlo, as mine often is. There are no rules, no limitations, just a blank page that beckons us ever closer and it’s our choice as to whether we close that book, or start scrawling on that page.

Art does not always have to be a by-product of suffering. We don’t have to be sad to create beautiful things and I think I’m at a point in my life where things are… okay I suppose. Life has been uneventful, things are fairly quiet, monotonous and non-eventful. I had become so accustomed to writing from a perspective of uncertainty that I felt bound by it – How could I write about anything else? So confusingly enough, maybe I haven’t forgotten how to write, I simply wasn’t sure what I wanted to write about, and this has become a question that I ask myself daily. What do I want to write about? What will my life read as once I depart this earth? What do I want to leave? And maybe that answers my question.

You may have noticed that In My Sunday Best has had a small facelift thanks to Phil over at Pipdig who did a stellar job in regards to moving me over to WordPress. I wanted to start the year on a platform that has more flexibility because my plan is to… well write more. From lifestyle to career advice, travel to time management. I’m breaking free from the chains I bound myself in and allowing myself to experiment freely.

 

Let’s cultivate freedom, creativity and joy this year.

 

Sx