I make no attempt to hide my desire to be extremely reclusive. The more the words flow, the more I crave a full blown Salinger-like bunker. Writing has caused my social anxiety to become a paranoid beast I struggle to control. I try to be social. I am on “The Facebook.” I can be found on “The Twitter.” I try to use “The Instagram”, but end up deleting a picture a few seconds after I posted it.
It’s unnatural to me.
I’m not good with the people aspect in writing. I lay naked, exposed and then people are supposed to comment and I know I’m supposed to comment back, but I can’t. I’m horrendous at talking back to people.
When I began writing, I tried to comment back. I was actually surprised someone read anything I had written. I still write with one expectation:
NO ONE IS GOING TO READ A SINGLE WORD WRITTEN HERE.
This site is my home. It is my sanctuary to string together the exact precise emotions and the words which won’t stop playing on repeat in my head. I had to stop answering comments here. I tried and then I felt guilty. I read them but when I try to respond… it doesn’t feel genuine. And I became wrought with more anxiety and guilt.
Maybe it wasn’t supposed to be designed this way. I look back to every inspiration I’ve had growing up and I ask what would their status updates be? If I could “friend” Hemingway on Facebook, I wonder what he would tell people about what’s on his mind? I thought about how awesome his posts would be.
Steinbeck, he’s a different kind of man. He’s struggling. Things are hard. He’s lived through the depression and has worked long hours on ranches. He rarely gets to his Facebook but when he does, he expresses a few basic needs.
Plath. I feel like there would have been a lot of tumultuous breaking up posts from Plath, and she would have been the original Vague-booker. People would scream at her to just leave Hughes. Quit writing how you love him one minute and then can’t stand him the next day.
Her relationship status would be ‘It’s Complicated.’
Finally, Poe. I love Poe. He was a tortured, beautiful soul. He was also probably a hot mess. It’s okay, I’m not judging him. I had my hot mess days too. I laid drunk in an alley once or twice. He was probably a downer at times, and other times he could be a fun guy who sucked the life out of you with perpetual misery.
We are writers. We don’t have any answers. We only have the thoughts and struggles swirling repetitively in our minds. We write the words we want. We try our hardest to convey a certain emotion or thought. Sometimes, we just want to tell a story. We don’t want that particular story to live inside of us anymore.
Those words eat at us.
The mass media machine is such an odd concept.
My husband lived in England for awhile. One of the reasons I fell in love with him was because of his stories about living in a foreign country. To a girl who has never been past the Indiana state line, I was fascinated by his tales of late night wanderings into pubs. I still love hearing those words even though I’ve heard them about a billion times since we’ve been together quite awhile now.
He told me about Speakers’ Corner in Hyde Park. I envision the people in my head, playing their instruments or shouting their poetry. Social media feels a lot like that place in England to me. I wrote something and I’m shouting to please hear my words because they matter to me. They are bits of my soul strung across a page. In certain pieces, they are the recollections of places I hope will either be resolved inside of me or they will find their grave and bury themselves there.
I shout my words not for attention or for likes or for judgement, I shout them because that is the way we’ve made the writing world.
We’re a dime a dozen. Please take a minute and read mine. Share me, love me, accept me.
I would never wish the curse of a writer’s soul on any human, for it is maddening.