Writers block (or constipation, as I call it) is hell. Dare we write something that will be thought of scandalous ...or worse hurt someone's feelings?! I don't want to hurt anyone's feelings, but I need to purge. I need to throw up the words and push them about on paper until they fit.
Writers, poets, and artists struggle with this and other insecurities all the time. Dare we share our secret places? It makes us vulnerable and shows our soft underbelly that is so unprotected regardless of what we do. Shore it up, putting on the Kevlar vest and we hide behind a wall of self imposed jadedness that eventually traps us rendering us impotent.
Poetry has been a passion of mine since I was about 9. Often it has been a way of saving my sanity by allowing me to travel into, as Robert Graves put it:
" I never dared question my muse about the government of her queendom or its geography."
It is a place I have gone to frequently in times of pain, sorrow, reflection. It is my safe haven... half reality, half fantasy...although I am rather unsure about the fantasy part.
In this life which we live, what is truly real and what is illusion?
It has been said that our lives are what we make of them. Well then, I guess that rather settles it.
I am retreating into my life and world as I have made it and continue to create.
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| Chronicle Copyright 1995 - Louise Ann Stowell - All Rights Reserved |
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