Why I write..

It starts with an idea, a concept, a single thought.

Usually found in a dream, or

In the shower.

This substance, drawn from within me,
Grows, builds and changes shape. Tumbling and bouncing in my mind.

Until,
I can’t take it anymore.

And it spills unto the page.


There it will remain, a scribbled mess, trapped in the page.
Eventually it is called upon, reshaped, reworked – into something acceptable, neat

But never complete.

***


Once there was a phase, I attempted to stop writing.
Completely.
It was an invasion. Into my conscious; my sub-conscious.

I felt exposed, naked. Open to ridicule.
So I stopped.
I put away my pens,
Destroyed my journals,
And tore the inspiration from my walls.

Then, one day, I realised
–
I can’t escape it.

“The blood jet is poetry and there is no stopping it” (Plath, 1962)
It travelled through my mind like a fret train.

Now I write.

I have a single corkboard. Exploding with layers of inspiration, spilling onto my walls, of which, I attempt to contain, protect, hide.

I still fight it.





Plath, Sylvia, Poem ‘Happiness’ Published in the 1962 collection ‘Ariel’.