writing about writing

So it looks like I will get myself to write one short incomplete piece every year and that’s as much as I will give to the written form. Like I have alluded to before, there is a lot of judgment that I have towards my own act of writing. But I just started reading Bird by Bird by Anne Lamott and what I’ve been feeling is apparently very normal. This need to breakdown vehemently when you sit in front of a blank piece of paper, and see the meaninglessness of your life is part of the writing journey. And apparently the point is to continue on this journey so that you get past this emptiness and anger and fear and mold them into your writing to produce something beautiful.

And I have come back to writing time and again, so obviously there is something drawing me in, just not enough to keep me hanging. So how does one get past all of it, and come back to a place of trying time and again? How does one continue to expel words every single day without criticizing oneself to the point of censorship?

Well, the truth is, I don’t know. And all things considered I don’t even know if I will come back to it as consistently. And maybe the problem is that I have glamorized the act of writing. And come to believe that a writer is always in a state of flow and can easily weave beautiful words and ideas into rich, complex and cerebral narratives. But maybe that’s just the good parts, and maybe I need to wade through the pain and the hatred and the bitterness first to reach that place. But why does it incite such a strong reaction in me in the first place? Maybe that in itself warrants writing more, because there is something awaiting release.