I keep saying that writing and creativity can be inspired by one thing and still become a whole other thing.
That a man (or woman) setting out to express something, especially really compelling stuff, ought not stifle themselves out of reservations or fears. I care less about what moment, thought, or experience inspired it and more that it’s relative, creative, conveys a thought and evokes a response in me later…(years later if I, or you, did a good job.) That’s the highest goal for me. If it made you think, twitch, barking mad or a little sad that’s an added sweet treat.
Sometimes I write things and feel ashamed. I know it will be too raw, too critical, too something and that someone I Love will wonder if I’m broken or think that I’m just wrong in the head (which may be the case).
I know too that we are humans and in our own iniquities, and weaknesses, judge others. That too many, too often, have a real need to feel more than someone else. Feel vindicated in their version of “righteous” and “good” or whatever. I feel pretty confident that you can’t take righteous with you when you go…you only get to take your wholeheartedness, your triumphs, your love and your memories…
I care what you think I should write and I want to uncare. I want to write words with own heart, my own demons, my own convictions so that maybe it becomes okay for you to do the same.
Maybe you’ll change somebody’s world. Tell them it’s okay to feel alive, to be alive, to live wholehearted and give everything away and be rich because of it.
So often my poems start with one intent but as I work them, read them and rewrite them they begin to tell their own story. I wrote a poem about relationships. In it there’s a woman who’s too busy to see she’s tearing down her man, eroding him into something else. She too wrapped up in her life, and the reality she wants, to even consider where he is in his life and that things may be more static for him until one day he’s gone.
Originally I wanted to write about people who’ve hurt me and how angry and hurt and raw and terrible it was but as time went on, memories replayed, I saw the attempts they’d made to be and stay my friend…it’s an okay story but not the one that wanted told in the end, and so it morphed into something entirely different.
A good example is a friend who was facing a conflict, the end of his marriage, and he began to tell a story of heartache but it turned into a beautifully romantic story…not what he intended, except he listened and followed where the characters led.
Write. So I do. Maybe I won’t ever be great, heck I might not even be good…but no bad can come of it, or at least the potential benefits outweigh the risks of humiliating myself.