So here I go again. Trying to start blogging again...
I don't know how many times I've tried, posted a few things, and then nada.
FAIL.
There's many reasons why I fail. Hmmm... maybe that's something to write about?
Yes.
I was at a writer's retreat earlier this month. It was an amazing experience, but the entire time I kind of felt like I didn't belong or something. At first, I thought that the feeling was that of being a poser. But then I decided that wasn't it. I do write. I love to write – even when it kills me. And every now and then I actually write something worth reading. So maybe I can consider myself something of a writer.
I decided this feeling of inadequacy was coming from somewhere else. Even if I call myself a writer, the fact remains: writing is a tremendous struggle for me. I love it, and I hate it. Sometimes through writing, I find myself. But sometimes I lose myself. And I seldom know which will happen when I start pounding those keys.
I've heard many writers talk about how slow the writing process is for them. I doubt they really know what "slow" is.
At the retreat, I participated in an incredible non-fiction writing workshop with a group of incredible writers. We were supposed to come having read a sample of everyone's work. Part of the time, we discussed each other's work. Every now and then we would do writing exercises:
"For the next seven minutes, write something that evokes these words: peace, envy, falling in love, etc."
While everyone else was busily writing witty, profound, and wonderful things in their notebooks, I just sat there for about five minutes with a look of blank horror on my face. Seven minutes!? Yeah... sure. Okay... Hmm... words... words... evoke those words... umm.... "Peace." Yeah. That one. hmm....
Before we were told to stop, I had written all of,
"And in that moment, it was as though the cracks of --"
FAIL.
I finally decided that this feeling of inadequacy was probably best described as that which must be felt by a guy in a wheelchair just learning to play basketball with a bunch of others on a court in which he is the only person who hasn't played varsity. I'm not saying that to sound funny, or to be self-deprecatory. And I'm certainly not saying that to suggest that people in wheelchairs can't play basketball; I have seen many that do, and are so good at it that the sight is something truly sublime. But I don't think anyone in a wheelchair would deny that they face obstacles that others don't. In fact, those obstacles are part of what makes what they do so beautiful.
So I guess that's what I'm saying: I think that I face some obstacles as a writer that most people don't.
My senior year in college, I was diagnosed with several lovely "disorders," after which I began working with the Office of Learning Accommodations both in my undergraduate and graduate education. I was afforded "accommodations" under the Americans with Disabilities Act (ADA). So I guess you could say that in a sense, I am a disabled writer. At least I am according to the psychologist.
But that's the weird thing about my "disorders": they aren't anything as tangible as something like the visually or physically impaired. Which just leaves me wondering, "Am I really 'disabled' in this sense? Or am I just stupid? Or lazy? Or both?" I often took advantage of those learning accommodations I was afforded in school. And yet, it was probably just as often that I didn't. Because I felt like I didn't deserve them. I felt like I was cheating or something.
Who knows? Maybe one day something will finally click. Maybe one day, some piece of the puzzle will fall into place, and I will finally be "normal."
I hope so.
*adds missing puzzle piece to Amazon wish list*
Until then... here I go again, limping my way into the blogosphere and onto the court.
Hmm….
Game on.
