Blockages

'Tis the season for obstacles

I’m hoping my job hunt is almost done. Fingers crossed!

Would my new job have much to do with writing? Nope.

Is it stable, paying more than my previous positions in education? Yes.

For that, I will gladly take it… and make a habit of writing in the evenings and on weekends (not my most productive time).

I believe my risqué topics, delving into female sensuality and sexuality, may have hindered my search (living in a small, isolated area didn’t help), but to be honest, this exploration has been my muse and continues to give me confidence in other areas of life.

Like learning to float on my back in water for the first time, I’ve typed hesitant words I trusted and leaned on that shined a light on my intimate corners and dared myself to press into taboo desires.

This spewing–words vomited into my laptop, phone, notebook, voice memo–makes me calm and helps me dismantle and sort. The writing process forces me to edit out what is counterproductive and not of value: pathetic principles, long-held obligatory mantras, and relationships that no longer challenge or engage me.

As a writer, you're supposed to focus on a certain audience, a specified segment, that you keep in mind as you craft prose.

I call BS.

Sure, my writing would appeal to women attempting to define sexual desire, especially later in life when their lives are rigid and outwardly pristine.

But I need to write for myself. I need to let out my insecurities and confusion in hopes I’m not alone. It’s proof, my digital evidence, that I don’t care what others think about me. And yes, I want to go to trial and be found guilty.

I write for me in amateurish therapy, a medium to open discourse, and a way to pull people from the periphery and delight in knowing "Hey! You're like me."

I gobble up the last bite. Squeeze the sponge dry. Lick what I shouldn’t. Pout when I’m not sad. Choose the dull blade instead of the sharp one. Scoot my way to the front. Sometimes, I shove… in a metaphorical sense, right?

In other words, how desperate am I to tell my story?

When life is jagged and my mind is itchy, the release is sweet.

I oddly enjoy sharing my bowels of failure and erratic roundabouts and sick cycles to expose my wretched and wasteful humanity.

When I cut myself open, the lifeblood of a written piece pumps louder. When hesitant lessons gel, paragraph-organs glisten brighter.

And when I allow others down the dank stairwell of my being, I can’t help letting the mine explode. When there’s a blockage…

So in order to continue writing, discipline and accountability will be paramount as I embark on this new career. I have no choice. I don’t want to imagine the alternative.