Thanks to doubts that reach sometimes debilitating levels that hound every step of the way with whatever work I’m working on, about every couple days I boldly pose the question (maybe some kind of subconscious plea for relief) that maybe I’m not really a writer/poet. Ask for signs. Guidance. Answers. Resign to the possibility that I am not what I thought I was or what others have expressed. Accepting whatever the truth turns out to be, because it’s often a pain in the butt (maybe in the masochistic way).
Today I got the news that though I’ll readily be the first to admit most of my work is detestable, at my core I am indeed a writer/poet. This news came while I was forced to endure a visitation which featured a small group of humans talking about topics I had zero interest in but societal protocols deemed I could not politely adjourn. Because i wanted to adjourn.
But since I could not adjourn, I had to seek deliverance in the realm of a fantasy. The fantasy my tortured mind found the most inviting was a world where I could sit at a desk and have in front of me a manuscript ripe for a rewrite; extracting a section, a couple paragraphs; expending judicious spans of time in trying to decide whether to use commas or periods or neither, and then realizing the section from the manuscript still needed more clarity. Or maybe there was an entirely different work waiting to be distilled from that one simple section. Or maybe there were poems hiding inside.
Thing is, I’ve lately dabbled with learning to draw and i enjoy it immensely. But I did not travel in mind to fantasies featuring graphite marks. Might be something to pass along to whoever goes through similar self-doubt torments. I find it hard to imagine too many people would find fantasies of playing with punctuation marks very fantastic.