Writing my life away

Something has occurred to me. I spend all this time inside my head. The time spent there often hinders me from being me on the outside, if that makes any sense. I just got back from my very last full residency week at Queens University of Charlotte. I will go back there in May to read from my thesis, teach a class, turn in some stuff, and graduate. Looks pretty simple as I see it so neatly typed on the screen. To get to that point has involved much time spent, mulling, and spinning, and beating to death thoughts that wash through my brain like a tsunami. That makes me sound crazy, and I have come to believe that may be true. But we all are walking around with some form of crazy folded up inside ourselves. Some wear it more gracefully than others. I was never good in ballet class. My body is just too awkward to move fluidly and without fidgeting.

Anyway. As always, upon coming back to my life after being rapidly thrust out of it and into the bubble-world of writers and academia, I have a period of reflection. It really is some alter universe that I go to when I leave town for these residencies. It is hard to describe. However, I'm sure you get the picture. What I've noticed is that when I go to this place, every single insecurity, every single flaw, every single thought of self-doubt, self-deprecation, all of the bad stuff I have worked through and grown out of for years just comes right to the surface again. It bombards me so fast, I feel nearly helpless and taken control by it. I can function in my world. I can function just fine in the professional world I work in, and in my social circles. I know it is about comfort. But after talking to a few other Queens' peeps, I have learned that my feelings are not so uncommon. Like I said, some people are just better at handling their crazy. I tend to wear it pinned to my shirt, outlined in bright green, fluorescent letters that either intrigues people, or makes them run far far away.

I think it's that writing puts the writer in a very vulnerable place. No other profession is that revealing. Whether people realize it or not, every single written word is read through some sort of judging lens by the audience and the blame, whether good or bad, gets put on the writer. Critics don't just criticize the work, it gets very close to the writer's psyche. The critiques can sometimes feel like a therapy lesson. And I write fiction. As fiction as I can be. My thesis advisor has told me my writing is strongest when the voice is authentic--when it is me. I've tried to distance myself from my writings, only to churn out less-relate-able material. I don't want to do that. I think the reading experience is best when you can fully engage. Anyone can write. We are all humans and we all know best how to convey the human condition. My only hope is that I can convey mine, my little piece of humanity in a way that is worth reading.

My thesis is halfway based on reality. It will probably be a novella length as I haven't got a novel in me just yet. Perhaps a longer, short story. Writing is such a deep, feeling thing. It kind of makes me nervous to have to face the reality of my emotions towards certain things to get it to the page. It takes a lot of self examination to write! Things people have said to me about my character come out. (Part of the tsunami of thoughts.) I constantly question, Am I really like that? In all of this mess, I am hoping, guessing, that I am becoming who I really am. No one ever told me it would take 25+ years to get there. Some days I feel older than I am. But I guess that simple thought alone, reveals my true age anyway. Some say it takes our whole lives to be who we really are.

Perhaps I'm just thinking too much about it. :)