I have a fascination with great female writers of the mid twentieth century. The trouble is they write as manic depressives. It's quite beautiful and brilliant, but such a morbid genre. I am drawn to it. I don't think the grimness of it all allures me, but something else. I feel connected to the authors, though I am nothing like them in lifestyle or meditation.
Much of my personal writings- poems, thoughts and such- which I show no one, have a morbid undertone. But it is not about death. They carry an understanding of life; the way things have to be, though no one understands why.
I am afraid to put anything out in the open for fear of being labeled as a person who can't handle life. But this is how I handle, how I release. Perhaps posting these thoughts online isn't the best way to express myself, and I find the idea of a "blog" to be almost pathetic when used to write about yourself. After I write something that means a great deal to me, I don't want to shove it back my notebook and call it a day, either. I need some sort of recognition, without being labeled a psychotic depressive writer.
Will someone loan me their thoughts? Tell me what they think of my feeble attempts to write something of meaning. It won't matter to you, and you won't understand it the way I do in my head, but I need to get some of it out.
1 comment:
You shouldn't have to worry about that. If you truly imbue yourself into your writing, it should be evident that you are not morbid; that you have profound respect for death, but find no allure in it. It simply is. You never did show me much of your writing; I would love if you did: either on this blog, or privately. Tom wants to nurse this little ring we have here; post as much as possible. We know you, we won't judge.
P.S. You forgot your calendar over here.
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