Free writing is actually harder than it sounds. Flowing words stop. Bam! Hit a wall and splatter dead. No syllables. No buying a vowel, Pat. Air in the brain and chugging sounds can be heard for miles around as I struggle to come up with a train of thought to get this thing moving.
Writing should be an easy thing to do. It should be as easy as talking to another person. Yet when you read my writing, it’s as if I let a little of my guard down, let you see behind the protective walls I have so carefully constructed. Writing actually feels more intimate than talking. When talking I guard my words more, because I can see your face, see your reaction to my response, hear the inflection in your voice. When I write, I don’t have to take that into consideration. It is just me and the keyboard having it out. When I choose to let you see the conversation that the keyboard and I are having, you are eavesdropping on my most intimate thoughts, plans, ideas, hurts, joys, fears. Sometimes, I have a near panic attack just letting the words out. It’s as if they will cause the world to stop or flip end to end if someone were to see that the world wasn’t perfect that day, or I didn’t feel much like loving someone, or I wanted to knock someone’s block off. Funny how I’ve been conditioned by others to believe such nonsense.
Nonsense- believing all the utter crap that everyone else says you should be and do and follow and say and start and end and blahblahblahdeblah. So many years and days and seconds wasted trying to please everyone and pleasing no one. Try that on for utter nonsense.
Trying on clothes irritates me and now that I found jeans that fit perfectly, the one place that carries them is going to quit carrying them. This happens every time I find a decent pair of pants that fit a “bottom the size of Brazil”.
That reminds me… I think I need to watch Bridget Joneses Diary and have a Colin Firth drool-fest.