the writing blog

I have been silencing myself for long enough. I was sure that, in order to write and write “well” you needed a reason; you needed anger, a desire to change things, and a need to talk about the human condition, to write in order to denounce injustices or human vices. I thought that writing had to be both beautifully mastered, filled with metaphors, a little philosophical but understandable to everyone, that it had to talk about marginalised people, to give them a voice in a unique way, yet one studied and discussed by erudites. I knew that this was not the path to follow, that one should write because one feels, because one needs to, not for fame, but to understand oneself a little more. And yet, I would stand in front of a blank page, frozen. I would crack my knuckles, move my legs, my body jerking, wanting to free itself from the battle happening in my brain, but unable to let go because not a single word I wrote was perfect enough from the start. And I expected brilliance from myself. I would forbid myself from writing down words such as “go,” “take,” “get,” “hold,” “eat,” “move,” etc they were too broad, too normal, unmarvellous. Maybe now you understand why I never write more than 300 words. I have said it before, I don’t have a battle to fight, I am a privileged white woman who is spending her summer in a summer house. I am not angry at all, almost never have been in my life. I am perfectly happy; I am loved and in love. I am in my twenties, I have a job with colleagues that I adore, friends who care, parents who worry. But something has been happening lately. I think we need a bit of everything, and that includes me. My friends and my boyfriend would agree, we need a “me,” because there is no other copy. So let’s write about happiness, flowers, and love. Let’s listen and read about the struggles of the world and human vices, about what is happening around me. It is important to read about them, to be silent, to acknowledge, to share the work of others. And in the meantime, I will be myself, inspired by others but free from their gaze, embodying only me, it is plenty.