Just because I need to write something in the beginning of the day. It doesn’t matter too much if it is published, unpublished, authorized or not authorized for youth. No parental guidance. No surveillance. Just me and the white page of Medium editor, which I came to love so much over the past months.
Where is the image to my story? I ask myself, but not for too long. I am getting high on words right now, and there is still a part of me that insists for this story to be published, and therefore write “something substantial”. Something of value for the reader. But this is one of the mornings when I need to detach from this urge completely.
Writing for myself, rather to suit someone else. Suiting myself now. I am writing to a set of electronic music from youtube, where I often type things like “music for writing”, “focus music” or “bamboo flute compilation”. I usually find what I look for: a background to make my words flow out smoothly through the keyboard. To the rhythm of the song — even better, but that doesn’t happen all too often.
I don’t lack words, but sometimes I lack a substantial topic to write about. That’s because it seems like everything has been said before, or is being said now, at the dawn of Medium era, where all the points of view matter. Because they do. Everyone can be a writer here and get claps if they only manage to dig deep enough into their soul.
Which is simple, but difficult at the same time.
It requires disattaching from the need to be seen, well-known, famous. For me at least, it requires this. It requires as little ego as possible, maybe just a hint so it can give the unique perspective to your writing.
I already feel disheartened by what I am writing here. It feels like I am wasting time, like nothing is coming out of me that I could show to other people. Like I am talking about the writer’s block without breaking through the writer’s block.
But what I learned is that words that seem disheartened now tend to ripen with time. As they are left alone on a piece of paper (or on a server, for that matter), they are growing a meaning as the time passes.
Sometimes coming back to a disheartened note like that after a few months or years feels like finding a shortcut in the space-time continuum.
I came across such shortcuts this last weekend, when I was clearing my room and going through old papers, notes and diaries of mine. I would like to be a minimalist with little stuff, but then the need to keep my life story recorded in the form of written words, letters, postcards and poems written on torn notebook pages wins. I keep everything that involves words written by me or by other people to me. The rest — I throw away.
My love for words and almost a fetish I have towards them is intriguing for me. I couldn’t, I wouldn’t and I won’t get rid of my recorded self in any written form. Whatever I have, I keep. One day it is going to turn into a book that I will have on my shelf, for sure. I don’t know about other people. That is — will they have their own books?
Now I am going to re-read what I wrote, edit the typos and hit publish. Let’s see what happens.