Posts tagged "writing" — Page 2

The Love of Practice

Think of writing practice as loving arms
you come to illogically and incoherently.

~Natalie Goldberg, Writing Down the Bones

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Sour Grapes

I have been locked out of my blog. The tragedy lies in the identity of the culprit.

I cannot join the chorus of complaints about middling web hosting services and technological glitches; not even can I lay the blame at the corporate feet of the perennially incompetent Time Warner Cable. I haven’t any tales of Prim infiltration by Putin’s Russian hackers. No, I am the problem. My choking perfectionism precludes me from even making a start.

I soothe the pain of procrastination, of abandoned passion, with mental manipulation, my favorite being that I am not meant to be a writer. Negating my history—my absence of memory sans the written word, my first grade story writing, the engraving of words upon my mind—I tell myself that this writing thing is but a folly. Worse, I may even want to be a writer purely for ego gratification, for the cool and the cred of the writer image.

My excuses are but crippling untruths.  I am sad living without writing.

I want to let myself back in.

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The Scream

From the moment of my birth,
the angels of anxiety, worry, and death stood at my side…
And I would often wake up at night
and stare widely into the room:
Am I in Hell?”
~Edvard Munch

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A Tale of Two Sweatshirts


I saw that sardonic sentiment emblazoned in white upon a pepper black sweatshirt and I wanted it. I wanted it, the real me whose face is not sutured with a counterfeit smile, the real me who is not an innocuous gnat, the real me whose veins course as thrill-filled tributaries to a heart that delights in this tiny rebellion. And so I bought it. And I wore it. And people noticed.

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Try Again

I have been homesick for Prim. Though writing is the only thing in this world that pardons me from the ordinary and grants me certain joy, I will abandon my writing practice like a sad newspaper left ignored on the driveway, condemned to perish to pulp. This time around, I squandered my true love for a trip to the beach, for an over the river, and through the wood turkey dinner, and for the spectacle that is the modern holiday season.

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