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Defiance - when you don't know what to do... — LiveJournal
do the next thing
I used to write. I read this book, a long time ago, by Stephen King, called Danse Macabre. When I first picked it up, I thought it was a work of fiction. That's why I bought it. My parents and I were going to Canada for a family reunion, and I needed a book to read in the car.

He said something to the effect that writing, sharing your story, is one of the most powerful things you can do. That if he didn't write, if he didn't exorcise these demons, he'd have gone mad long ago. Now, Stephen King has had his share of real-life demons, including alcoholism and a problem with drugs, that he had to fight in a very different way. He's defeated those and gone on to become one of the most prolific and popular writers of the 20th century, and now on into the 21st.

I don't fancy myself as good a writer as Stephen King. I've discovered that my talents are more expository, less fictional. The stories that are inside me are burning to get out, sometimes, but they are hardly original, and perhaps I'm too hard on myself, but sometimes I think that I lack the originality to share them in any way that could be remotely considered new.

I tried to keep a journal in college. In it, I described dissatisfaction with my physically abusive boyfriend. He read it, and used the words against me. I continued keeping a journal, until shortly I realized that I'd written an entry tailored for him to read. It was then that I realized that I wasn't being true to myself, to what I had to say, to the words. And I stopped.

"The most important things are the hardest things to say. They are the things you get ashamed of, because words diminish them - words shrink things that seemed limitless..." -- Stephen King, The Stand

I tried again, ten years later. And the same thing happened again. I was betrayed by my own words, my own thoughts and feelings. My own expression of who I am. The anger, the pain, the fear, jealousy, rage... the love, the incredulity, the passionate failure to understand why bad things were happening when all I wanted was to do the right thing. And I stopped again.

I am an artist. I can make things pleasing to the eye with needle and thread, with fabric and color and texture. I wish I could make a living at it. But sometimes, the fibers aren't enough, and I need the words, even if they do take the limitless emotions, the sweeping stories, the love and the rage and passion and the pain and put shapes around them, make them flatter, more concrete. Even at that risk, I need the power of words.

So I'll take the chance yet again. The words are in me. Bottle me, betray me, try to silence me at your own risk. Because I'll keep coming back, and every time, I'll have more to say.

i feel: determined determined

shoot the rapids