As a reviewer, I can be compulsive. The act of writing a helpful review is my aim. If I’m spinning, know I’ll find traction. Like any form of writing, the process teaches, when one applies a critical eye to deconstruct and build a vision from offered words, however they might present.
Happy Account Anniversary Geoff ~
This is a poem that is and isn’t about the title subject but something culled between the lines as a writer aware of this process to write truth and all that stops us from applying pen to paper. Life, as our words, have to be nuanced to consume, have considered, if even to know ‘do we speak a similar language’? As author-journalists, we could just write for ourselves, promising our words never see the light of day. However, this is a process of self-awakening that is interrupting in your poem. I clearly see the dilemma — lies are easy, truth is what is difficult.
We might project reader reaction, have someone in mind who might read, we could change the course of history and we might be overthinking it. I’m told by a former therapist, it’s a fear of success that has limited my output. That was 20 years ago. I had sought and found fame of sorts as a professional journalist. It never stopped me from hounding others or myself for truth. As one who had to be accurate, not want to disappoint, and have aired fewer than a half dozen retractions, none/nothing in the process seemed embarrassing. And, your poem reminds me. Why I write in a community while discovering myself. I need to motivate somehow, hating complacency. None of it/this deters or scares me. There was a time when it did, before all the formulations began arriving.
I think we perform better under pressure or walk away (if a 15 minute break or three years). The catalyst is there, but we tend to psyche ourselves out. We stall, as I see the poem demonstrate. There is a moment when it seems the course of history could change, projecting. Truth as in unalterable evidence can break any way. The only question seems will it be regret to keep your truth alone or take that risk. I’m for calculated risk, should odd be better than tenuously known.
We wrestle with our own words, what they should say and how, struggle to start. What road is the writer on, which path to take, tempted by the less traveled? We don’t see the end of the story (until we get there, consider), or what evidence reveals as truth. But here, the writer wrestles with fear, humility, as if a confession, one that should set oneself free (as many have been falsely prompted). This is about doubting whether it will. As a reader, specifics unknowable here. That’s where I plug in. As a relater, the importance of just a poem in earnest, revealing great consideration that can agonize, cause lament, whatever path chosen. It’s worth pondering. But, do we even wield our own pen when we attempt truth others may misinterpret (even now), it could get worse — refuted, rejected or railed against. I’ve been all up in that my whole life. People who taught righteousness repeatedly reveal as hippocrites. My tolerance is tested and the common denominator is not me.
It’s back to what taxes us, holds us back as writers. I fear failure, not success because there are so many ready to correct, not on grammar but subject? And, who don’t even know each individual’s journey through trials, reminding this reader the excuse I’m given to unplug from community and do what I want. If they need confessional writing, demonstrate something to me that’s believable so I can trust and follow in kind. But, look around. It’s all lies. Fiction everywhere. We put on our best face, not the ugliest mugshot, except that one person that wants to fit in, and realize the error of what it takes to be worthy…but accept ourselves, let no other judgment supersede.
This poem indirectly and with many awkward details perfectly demonstrates a process that can lead to this exact frustration boiling over into sadness. I can relate as reader. As we mature, push forward as writers, we might find a niche. The goal with writing doesn’t have to be to share, just care about the process. We also need passion inspired. Here I’m confronted by someone who does need to eloquently write confessional, but can. It feels as if there is a standard to meet, but the mind outduels the writer, spinning about fear, but is looking at outcomes with honesty. We know it doesn’t reward, experience taught. There is something in us that needs to lie, embellish, repair so we can move forward. Perhaps, we can’t alter history with words. Is that it?
I find the process serves a voice that has not been found. Sometimes, I don’t need it. I cast my seed-like words to a worldwide wind, if ever I’ll know, like really know, I’ve found others as passionate, as we possibly could catapult the other higher. I’ve gotten a bit away from poem concept, as I have applied myself to its formula, provoked by its author to further consider my role in a writing life. You lift me; I lift you. We go on. We’re writers.
I really did enjoy this and will consider again in the future…maybe start linking stuff folks could check out. Oh, I was ambitious just then. Yeah, set myself up (I’ll link that meme below). I’ll be happy and chirping as a lark before I remember I’m not a lark, but well meaning.
Warm Regards!
Sincerely,
Brian
WDC disAbility Writer’s Group
and Account Anniversary Reviewer
Citizen Journalist
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