OK, so here’s the thing. I am a voracious reader. I am always coming across new words. In fact I have this particularly visceral relationship with words. I love words that articulate seemingly intangible emotions or ideas perfectly. When I come across words like this, I then want to use them at the next possible opportunity and as nonchalantly as I can. Today that word is visceral. Though I am not sure how well I succeeded in being nonchalant in the way I used it, but hey I had to get it out of my system. Indulge me if you will. Please.
I have so much I want to say and write about that I don’t even know where to start. My thoughts are all over the place and focusing them onto the page is proving to be quite the challenge. I will just have to go back to basics and write from the heart. Here goes. Even though I fancy myself quite the eclectic and equal opportunity reader I have always enjoyed flicking through the pages of autobiographies and memoirs more. I have searched for myself in the words and stories of others. I have lived vicariously through their trials and tribulations. I have been inspired and comforted by their life’s journey’s.
When it comes to my writing I am just a student of the blank page. I write to find myself in my own words. I write to commune with and reach out to my mind’s doppelgangers. I write because I love words. I love playing with words. Words are my colours and when I write I’m just painting my heart. I love giving voice to my thoughts and experiences in well-structured sentences. I have been writing more or less consistently for over a year now. During that time my writing has mostly been introspective and autobiographical in nature. That probably has its foundations in the reading I have always been partial to as well as the narcissistic nature of blogging. You write what you read. Whilst as I reader introspective writing has always resonated more with me I am even more in awe of writing that is insightful. Writing that focuses less on giving the man in the mirror a home on the page and instead offers the space between the margins to the man on the street.
So it was with a desire to grow as a writer and as a person that at the top of the year I challenged myself to not only try and be more insightful in my writing but also to share this more insightful writing on a public platform that wasn’t my personal blog. It’s now past the halfway mark of the year already. I haven’t achieved a lot of the things I set out to do in 2013. Over the last two months I have regressed and lost focus on a lot of my goals. I have been stranded on this boulevard of broken dreams. I am not proud of it. At the same time I am not wallowing in self-pity. I am just cognisant of my reality. I have always have been and will always be my own harshest critic. I am a cynical optimist. Oxymoronic as that might be. I have the highest hopes and expectations of myself and a deep rooted self-determination that whatever I focus my mind on is as good as done. That is the optimist in me. The believer.
The cynic in me is always asking the hard questions and consistently reminds me of my limitations. That self-belief without focus and application is useless. That without perseverance, discipline, dedication and hard work it’s all just pure folly. Believing alone is not enough. You need a plan, and you need to carry it out diligently. Even after the fact there will be roadblocks and potholes along the road. It is inevitable. Something I have discovered in my quest to be more insightful in my writing.
Two months ago I wrote what I considered my most insightful piece of writing to date. I even worked up the courage to submit it to a respected a respected publication. Suffice to say I didn’t get published. I didn’t make the grade. Unfortunately this gave the cynic in me all the ammunition he needed and I subsequently spiraled into self-doubt. This doubt spread like a cancer into many other areas of my life which brings me to the present day. To this place. The boulevard of broken dreams. I have allowed myself to live here for too long but as I sit here writing this I am having an epiphany.
When it comes to my writing my muse has presented itself to me in different forms. It has been heartbreak. It has been love. It has been personal growth, but as I continue trying to grow in my writing I realise that focus is the perfect muse. Focus will help me continue to write, to work on what’s important, to reflect and to find peace. It is the only muse that truly matters. I haven’t given up on trying achieving the goals I set out for myself. I just have to continue reminding myself to focus my energies on making sure I achieve them. The introspective writing I have done has helped me to pull myself even closer towards myself. I have gained a better understanding of who I am as a person. I have grown, and it will continue helping me to grow. One day I know, I will be grown enough to be as insightful as I aspire to be. I accept that I am not there yet but I am even more focused now on getting there.