I don’t think I picked up the pen like Hamilton, but writing my way out is a regular habit for me. All my imagery is relevant and my words shout louder than I ever could. It’s a relaxing process for me really. The need to spill over and over my thoughts into ink or lead or keystrokes is a defiant act that I pursue regardless of the outcome.
The first time I realized writing was useful to me outside of the classroom was in primary school when being picked on for being different got too much to bear. I remember buying a simple notebook and filling it from cover to cover with curse words. I believe at the moment it must have helped for even now expelling curse words does something euphoric for my brain. It was also during this time that I had gotten a Gameboy and a number of Pokemon and Harry Potter games, suffice it to say that my carelessness as a nine year old got the device stolen and that resulted in two more notebooks filled to the brim and covers overflowing with curse words.
The second time I realized that maybe writing was good for me was when I was in high school and had just started reading Romance novels. I hated Harlequin and Mills and Boon. They were predictable and really too annoying with female characters that either wanted handsome or rich guys or most times both. I can recall switching to Historical-Romance novels and reading a lot of Catherine Coulter and while the females did not provide me with much role model worthy excerpts, they at least challenged the hell out of the Lords/Barons/Kings they were meant to marry. Because traditional romance never satisfied whatever hunger I felt I started writing simple poems and one-pagers of romantic notions that now really were just my futile attempts to avoid P.E. and Clothing Textiles classes.
Eventually writing became my go to avenue to express my feelings on anything. To show interest I wrote my own Hallmark tidbits. When I was angry I doodled terribly in black ink and often threw a curse word or two onto the edge of the page that held a significant rant about what bothered me. When I was down I simply penned whatever came to mind and let it stand alone for regardless of the feeling it was relevant.
Lately this relaxation process for me comes less and less. It’s not that I don’t need relaxing, but honestly the words I see on the paper after are more angry than cathartic. Sometimes I don’t even attempt to put my feelings on paper because I know the end result can hold nothing but my fears. I know I should face these fears, but ignorance is bliss and I’m not a warrior every day.
Recently I’ve been called a bad friend. The details are shitty and maybe it is my fault, but I can never accept that responsibility because I was never given the chance till after the fact, so really it doesn’t count. I tried to write about it, but I only produced half-sentences and stunted ideas of what I believe to be grandeur. Right now my mind is a mess of what ifs and maybes and just screw everything’s. I smile more now because I can’t have the world asking if I’m okay. It hurts my jaw. I am okay though. I am also hurt, but it did not break me.
I’m not a warrior every day and for my pen and paper I don’t need to be. Whether or not I scribble curse words, dead metaphors, clichés or actual readable poetry I am accepted because the canvas is empty and it cannot refuse what chooses to fill it.
I didn’t pick up the pen like Hamilton, but I will never stop trying.
Twenty-four down, twenty-eight to go…