I am still a little afraid of / the human heart. / of gorgeous / romantic / dreams
(Page from The Great Gatsby, F. Scott Fitzgerald)
I’ve been having fun making blackout poetry! I’ve done this before one night, two years ago, but stopped after a couple poems. I’m beginning again, which is the exciting part, but by directly using a book.
Blackout poetry is created when you take a piece of writing and select less than 50% of its words to create something new. The first time I blacked-out, I used Google Books to screenshot pages from The Odyssey, then printed these out. Now, I am happy to say that I use a heavily-annotated book from the thrift store. Now there is no excuse for me not to continue on with my poetry making. I don’t think Fitzgerald will mind.
Sun is shining through my window today and my lavender plant is growing.
Yesterday I finished reading a childhood favorite book called The Silver Crown by Robert C. O’Brien. If I remember correctly, I only read the book once, but its images have always stayed in my mind. I was delighted to find that many reviewers on Goodreads also said the same.
The girl who puts on a crown and becomes a queen. Perseverance to find her queendom. What a unique story it must be, to have it live forever in your imagination! Usually rereading books is a different experience, since I can expect what comes next in the plot. However, rereading The Silver Crown was like going through the stages of a dream from long ago—familiar, but viewed in a different state of consciousness.
I also read Austin Kleon’s Show Your Work, while listening to funk music covers. Kleon shares a quote on page 112 that says,
“The impulse to keep to yourself what you have learned is not only shameful, it is destructive. Anything you do not give freely and abundantly becomes lost to you. You open your safe and find ashes.”
– Annie Dillard
This quote was to introduce a chapter about not being afraid to share and teach your creative process. But it also spoke to the side of me that is very anxious and unsure about this blog.
Ever since I was little, I have loved showing my creations to others and writing on blogs or in notebooks that I would share with friends. But the act of adopting this blog feels so foreign to me. I like to stick to projects that have an end goal or clear purpose all the time. But in this case, I am unsure of what I am doing and where it will go.
– So,I have decided that the purpose of sharing my life through my writing is that I may learn to share. Simple, but if you know me in person, I do not open up very easily. I withhold my insights and stories until I find gaps that are open for my voice to fill. I hope that by expressing myself in a way that is most accessible for me (writing), I may connect with you, and you with me, and we can learn how to be creative together.
– I want to share because time still keeps going when you stop. One of the most impactful articles I read was a post about the Instagram poet Atticus. The post’s title reads, “Don’t die with a pen in your hand, be brave.” Whenever I feel too incompetent to be an artist or writer, I think of what it will be like to die with a whole collection of ideas, memories, and unsaid things. I would rather have them run out into the world by my own hand, rather than a family member’s, which could interpret and present my words differently.
– I need to share because I have lived a life of perfection and pick-and-choose. It is time to be reckless. One of the biggest obstacles to focusing on writing more is that I have limited myself to my expectations. Crafting and drawing has been my main thing for a while. But even though I draw nice things, it is hard for me to see myself in my art. I have started to draw out of the guilt of inconsistency and share for the approval of others. For a validating-ticket of “yes, you are an artist.” See, the thing is, I want to live my art every day, not only when I need something on social media. I want to enjoy creating things that are meaningful to me. My ultimate goal with writing is to prove to myself that it is not too late to be a writer. That I am valid even though I did not declare myself a writer at the age of eight, wish to publish at thirteen, or intentionally write at sixteen. I am constantly reminding myself that this new way of creating has only begun and it is mine. It is not too late. I am not just a “drawer” or student. I imagine my future self surrounded by art, creating it, and living an imperfect life of love. Why the heck not start now?
Those are three of the things (I like the number three) that I have to keep reminding myself of in this time of instability. It is scary to begin new things and try to connect the present You to the past You.
Someday I will look back on this and say, “Woah.” Or “Haha, you wished, honey.” I hope it’s the former. I hope I look back on this passion I have been gently feeding and gasp at how much it’s grown without me realizing.