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I’ll Never Shut Up, Get Used to That Now

December 20, 2011  Author: Anthony Pacheco Category: Anthonyisms, Not Exactly Random, The Craft   0 Comments

As the year ends, this has been an amazing journey for me as a writer. I’ve learned so much. I pulled up my very first novel and looked at it. It was as if another person wrote it. On drugs. With one hand. Upside down. There may have even been drool. Electronic drool. If my laptop could speak its mind, I think the words about that first book would have been “durp drup durp.”

There are things about me that I keep close to my heart. I’ve hinted here and there, and while I don’t keep secrets, I’ve also pointed out that sometimes knowledge is a burden. That wasn’t a hint to back off. It was an attempt not to contaminate you.

Yet, this year, that heart is heavy for many writers. In some ways, my empathy comes full circle. I know first hand that some journeys are steps where your own shadow is your only company. I’ve learned since joining the interweb tubes club that it’s best to simply offer a kind word. No one wants to hear that sorrows are relative even if that is the universal truth that lends perspective and change. These are things that simply don’t convey because I am not sitting across the table looking into your eyes and sharing your burdens.

So what does that have to do with writing?

Ah, you see my friends, writing is a skill for honing, practicing and developing. Writing from the depths of your core, however, requires something altogether different. This year, I not so much grew my writing talent as I’ve grown as a person. I’ve come to terms with some of my own little slices of bleak.

Sometimes, understanding is a block.

Don’t come to grips with whatever.

Write it out.

Don’t delve deep into the mind of your own psyche.

Write it out.

Don’t reach out for empathy and a sympathetic ear.

Write it out.

Write it out. Write it out. Write it out. This is what flows in our blood. This is who we are. The blank page deserves honesty. If, at the end of the last page of the last chapter, you’ve bled and cried, then so be it.

Sometimes the only connection is the literary connection. The void, sometimes, can only be filled with words.

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