An Ode to the Writer

Dear Diary,

Long time no see!

I know, I know, it’s all my fault; I hold up my hands in shame.

It must be what, five, six years, since I last picked up a pen and let all my mental conversations flow out onto the page. Not just for you, but rather for everything. Be it novel, poem or, yes, journal entry, I stopped it all. No words have emerged from my biro for quite some time, the ink now dried up, so consider yourself lucky, my old friend.

I’m sure right now you’re complaining. Why? You ask, voice drawn out, like that’s of an old man. Why did you stop writing? And why start again now?

It’s a hard question to answer. There are so many parts to put together, like a jigsaw puzzle, except the edges resemble more a knife’s sharpened bite than any classical puzzle piece. I used to write a lot; people joked that they were surprised my hands weren’t permanently stained blue, as I always had a pen in my hand, and it always seemed to be leaking (it was my eternal curse). But one day I stopped and never started again. Until today, of course.

People always ask me nowadays, like you are right now, why? You were so good, they lament, you had so much potential.

Why? Why? Why?

It’s an endless barrage. Every family wedding, school reunion, or old friend’s catch up, the floodgates open and the questions come rushing out, drowning out any answers I have to give.

I’m tired of it, I suppose. That’s why I’m here today, starting up journaling again, trying to make it count as some sort of comeback. Look! I can shout, holding you aloft. I haven’t stopped writing at all! Then, I can parade you about in front of them all, like some prize-winning cow, all smug and secure, floodgates firmly locked shut with chains and bolts.

I hope you don’t mind being paraded. It’s the only option available, I’m afraid. After all, I can hardly be expected to answer their questions honestly, can I? You, instead, give me a backdoor, a secret exit, from which I can manoeuvre out of, with no detriment to myself.

The truth, like I said, is a dangerous, tricky jumble of pieces. Most of the pieces don’t seem to fit together with the others and those that do seem to have missing parts, as if this puzzle of my mind was one brought at a second-hand sale where the seller didn’t bother to check before handing it over, too greedy for the scent of the money in my hand. The seller, in this metaphor, is me. The past me, to be precise, with the unsuspecting buyer being the present me. Past me has a lot to answer for, though sadly, I don’t think I will ever see true justice unless I arrest myself, and be judge, jury and executioner, as well as victim and defendant.

There is also the added issue that for most of my life (blame past me again) this confusing puzzle has been locked, like my imaginary floodgates, with chains and bolts deep within my brain. So far deep, I have trouble digging it up myself.

“Are you sure?” My brain asks each and every time, a box flashing up in my imagination as if it was a computer still running on Windows 7. I tick the yes button.

“Are you doubly sure?” The box flashes up more angrily this time. I tick yes once more, but this time with a pause. I am unsure. My brain has made me doubt myself.

Once this puzzle has been dragged out of its hidey-hole, once the missing pieces have been found and accounted for, and once every piece has been painstakingly fitted together, the question of why I stopped writing is clearly answered, and wholly laughable. Promise you won’t laugh if I tell you? That is my greatest fear, why I hide my answer so well, is that to others it will seem silly, and laugh.

I’m terrified of others view of me.

But you won’t laugh, you are, after all, an inanimate object I have only given life to so I can have this conversation, so I don’t have to go to a therapist, another person who view I'm afraid of, to discuss my issues.

The reason I stopped writing (yes, you shall finally gain your prize for listening to my ramblings), is that I couldn’t think of any purpose for it other than making me happy.

What? You shout, becoming the angry old man in my vision. That’s it? Isn’t that still a good reason to write?

Maybe, but I couldn’t find the energy. There is so much more in the world, things that have some lasting impression, some lasting effect, that only making me happy didn’t seem enough anymore. My writing did not touch the soul, gently caress it into new shapes and figures, lead it, like a dog, to new outlooks. These are things, I thought, it needed to do, to be worth my time. It was better, I thought, to focus on other things. My work, my relationships, my goals in life. Writing took a step back, and another, and another, till it was abandoned in a dusty cupboard, locked with those chains and bolts.

It felt good to get that out. In terms of therapy, you, good diary, are doing a stellar job. 5 stars out of 5, on diary_ratings.com.

I think I’m done for the night. I do not know when I will write to you again. Maybe tomorrow, maybe never. I know, I know, my inconsistency is my biggest flaw. Be glad you got this entry at all.

I will, however, try. While this entry tonight has been a weight lifted off my chest, a big weight truly, there are still more on me, dragging my spirits down, and I think it is time for them too, to be removed. Writing this, after so long, has made me happier, more sure of myself. It hasn’t changed the world, no, it hasn’t done that, but it has changed me, and perhaps, just perhaps, that is enough.