The Best & Worst Question

How’s Writing Going? 

It’s almost gotten to a point where I’d almost even prefer “did you work out today?” or “are you dating anyone yet?”

But lezbehonest, I don’t.  Unlike my answers to latter two though, the former takes a more careful and craftier response. It’s hard to tell someone how the passion of your life is going as opposed to your very simple dating life–or lack thereof.

NO, I’m not dating anyone.

Easy.

But when prosed with the writing Q, my mouth stutters and my eyes panic.

Writing is going….I’m waiting for some stuff to be publi—I started a series for an online magazine no one has heard of—I’m in the works with a friend to launch a blog—do you read children’s books because—

NOT SO EASY.

It’s difficult because I think a lot of my identity  rests on writing. Actually, on my writing. Like any art, it’s hard to cultivate a passion/talent/trade in a light that looks successful or worthy to be doing in the first place when it’s not say being played on the radio, on the NY Times Must-Reads or in a gallery somewhere in Brooklyn. Then again, I suppose that’s entirely subjective, but sometimes I wish there was something more tangible than clicking “publish” or “post” to help confirm I’m doing things–that I’m moving forward.

I often find myself dependent on the works I manage to finish. Because if writing is not going well, I usually am not so well and  so I am not a success. And since that thinking is unfair, my definition of such a word has had to change (especially  since I decided to step into such a lifestyle). It has transformed and is working it’s way to where it’s to be less a kin to the gold factor and worldly kind, but more responsible for carrying and acknowledging the weight of the power of word and blessing of gift. And when “success” becomes that, I am easily less discontent with my work, because though failure becomes somehow easier to recognize, it’s also easier to restore and or restart.

This is a passionate meets pitiful road I tred adamantly on, despite. it. all.  No other profession could embody such traits more complimentary to me than writing.

I’m obscure, I’m introverted, I’m fickle, I’m random, I’m lofty, I’m emotional, I’m conundrumous and I’m ebb and I’m flow.

I’ve accepted I am meant to live in the tension that I think must be called creativity.  I write because if I don’t, I go crazy. Though when I do, I also go crazy, but that type of crazy turns into like a cool and acceptable chaos that somehow detangles the already present ones in my head, heart and fingertips.

And though at times I feel like the most foolish person to want to partake in this craft as a forever endeavor,  a wise and mentoring voice soothes this catered ache within me:

Writing is like a ‘lust,’ or like ‘scratching when you itch.’ Writing comes as a result of a very strong impulse, and when it does come, I for one must get it out.” (C.S.)

So this is me getting it out, my Russian nesting doll version of writing–writing on writing on writing and why I write. And hopefully also, these 545 words may suffice the next time someone asks me, “how’s writing going?”.

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Knots in my head, on my head.

I feel impending like the lack from the knotted twine lugging up a love weightier than it’s counterpart. Like the sum of my misplaced heart and an abstract heart, I’m a whole disguised by a half by something holy and woefully indebted to Eternity’s gift of eternity. I can grasp the lesser Known more than what I call my own. And this protects the anxious I call my hunger, my posture, my heart. But the bright circle turns into a dark circle and a new day is born, torn from a “no” and a “not yet” and a times a “never”–but torn. And so my hunger, posture and heart are in a civil war because I forget my grasp is from my hand, and my palms are often human. Sometimes it is I who lack when I do not accept to know the Known and so the unknown takes hold of me. And now there knots are in my head, or on my head–but they are knots, tangled within each other forming treaties to obstruct my pace and my peace. Knots that loosen me to drop below and far from my counterpart, from my Love.

But the dark circle, of my eyes while more the sky, turns into a bright circle. With or without a head nod, there lies a circumference of comfort that corals any impending into arrival.

Remember knotted head, remember.

Doubt My Love

I got it so I flaunt it; my capability to love.

I’m temperamental, fickle and almost always moody, but swear I’m a catch (who’ll catch your arms and limbs) —-so [never] doubt my love.

Never doubt my love because my brows are furrowed. When I speak louder it is only because it is windy outside countered by your hard of hearing.

Never doubt my love because my fingers create stark white imprints across your arms, I just want you to feel near.

Never doubt my love because of the silence that often  evades from my mouth, my thirsty thoughts internally praise your name like a whisper touching an ear–may it sink into your bones.

Never doubt my love because I am sad often for sadness has nothing to do with you and everything to do with me.

Never doubt my love because I’m disappointed, but my fingers are pointed more at the enemy, than at you my friend.

Never doubt my love because I cannot stay later, but I can come over earlier.

Never doubt my love when your angry sun is out and my stubborn moon retreats.

Never doubt my love because i’m weak, and  I say yes when it should be no, or no when it should be yes.

Never doubt, my love.