The Poet Or The Poem

Close enough for the blue to disappear utterly. White foam crashing over my soles, reaching high up to my shins, my knees, my thighs and mind. As I stood in the sea with my white dress and bare feet, the scene was so rich that poetry and literature practically poured from my ears. I will write about this, I thought. I will write about this and it will be beautiful. Once my skin had dried, it seemed my pen had, too. It is only then as I stood before a blank page that I understood the words of David Carradine, American actor and director, "If you can not be a poet, be the poem." For most of my years I have been the poet. Turning nothing into something charming. Meaningless interactions into stories. How I could write a library for my fictional infatuations and lives. In that moment, toes upon the rocks and a descending horizon ahead, I was the poem.

Writing is not so far from breathing. A writer does not want to write. Rather, a writer needs to write. When spending a heavy and dark duration with one's own solitude, it would seem nothing more than an opportunity for a writer. To write. To breathe. So, what happens when the ink runs dry? The solitude becomes louder. Quieter. Screaming and still. It feels like failure. Multiple job offers I rejected to stand by my words. Copywriting for corporate companies, oh, they would only corrupt my purpose and I would be left empty. They paid well, they did. What do I have to show for this decision? It has been months since I turned down those jobs, and not one proud piece have I written since.

Something that writers are told often is to find their "voice". How one word can carry so much weight. To find one's "voice", one must find themselves. Who you are when you write is who you are, is it not? Truthfully, I do not have the answer. Nobody does, but everybody has something to say. And it is these words that infiltrate those of a born writer. For, is a story built upon developed knowledge and talent? Sentence structure and literary construction that satisfies the mind. Ignites a thought, a conversation, a smile. Recently, I read a book authored by Mona Awad, Rouge. Never had I read a thing of its portrayal and calibre. It encouraged me to think, is the way I write, why I call myself a writer, is it different enough to be good? Unique, could I call myself and my art this? Or, are these efforts merely a journal that I write to myself?

Nora Ephron, Dolly Alderton. These are the women I listened to while wearing wireless headphones and baking vanilla sponge cake. Journalistic storytelling, induced with wit and passion. When I read or I listen to their words, it feels as though I am amongst a friend. Discussing and developing thoughts of feminism, men, politics and purpose. Being a writer, being a woman. Not each space between each word reeks of poetry. At times it is blunt, conversational. Authentic. Though, I believe my "voice" should be one made of pure beauty. Absolute affirmation and serenity in all ways it travels. Perhaps, it must not. Owning a PhD in creative writing and English literature, it may just be that Mona Awad's "voice" is built upon a strong education and vivid imagination. Ephron's constructed from life, and living it.

During a workshop I once attended, an established screenwriter gifted the tip of writing during one's emotions for increased authenticity. You feel sad? Write something sad. If your heart is light, your words should be. For a long time, my heart was weighed by what I believe to be first love. The poems I wrote, short stories I entered into Vocal challenges, and even delving back into creating lyrics and songs. All of it, consumed with his mistreatment of me and my incapability of not loving him in spite of it. My words became only for him. How I hated it. Twirling spaghetti into a spoon, I recited this narrative to my friend sitting opposite. The breath that escaped my mouth as my words did was dull and dense. Though, it is when I apprised her of the other male-species-related experiences I had encountered along this road of impasse that her smile broke through her sympathy. Roaring with laughter so loud I was convinced the glasses would shatter. Even I laughed, too. 'You must write this down.' She told me while gasping for breath. Witnessing the despair in my eyes caused by the unrequited bond I could not break for one man, she knew all of my stories would not be able to escape this reality. 'These stories are too funny for you to be writing about something so sad all of the time.' I told her I would try. I would try.

So I tried. Overboard - a competition where Vocal challenged their writers to build a narrative based on a boat, and a key character falling off it. Instantly, the wires in my brain pointed towards the man in my heart. How must I write about the sea when he despises it? Perhaps I could write about this. With an anticipating sheet of paper before me, I placed the pen to it and, in large letters, wrote "I do not want to write about him anymore." God, I was bored. There is more to life than him. So many lessons to be taught and art to be birthed, this I knew. But, I just could not stop. Stop writing about him. It was my friend's words and the brief of this eccentric Vocal challenge that forced me to redirect my words towards something humorous and light.

The premise: a woman anonymously invites the loves of her past, and present, to a boat party. All with the intention of learning from history to clarify her future relationships. At this party would have been men based on those that exist in my memory... and nightmares. The worst date ever and the best date ever, only with the wrong man. All three men with the same name would speak to each other without any comprehension of their mutual relevance. Then, because I just could not help myself, he would arrive. She would love him as painfully as I do. In terms of somebody going overboard, potentially I could have thrown his girlfriend off the deck. Though, I did not approve of this option as she is blameless for his cruelty. Or, it could have been he who is pushed into the water that he hates so much. For, it would be the only way for him to leave my heart. Most likely, I would have dived off the edge of the boat just to escape all of these disappointing men. It may have been a funny story, just what my friend told me to pursue. But, the flow could not even begin. My mind and heart, my soul, they were not light - so how could my words possibly be? Truthfully, I am not so certain of my storytelling's capability to make others laugh. Dolly Alderton makes me laugh. She is so good at it. Maybe I am only good at being sad.

"Just write." Countless times I have been delivered this advice from a writer. Just write, even if you do not want to. Even if is unreadable, tired, bad. Even if you do not want to write, just write. The hopelessness of not being able to write, or write well, is impenetrable to a writer. Your purpose, the thing that makes you feel alive, is lost. You are lost. You are not alive. Sometimes I believe that when you question your "voice", how you should write and who you should be when you write, you will never discover the honest answers. It is within us already. Still, as I write this piece, self-doubt has stood in the corners of my mind. Is this any good? What will people think as they read it? And, it is these thoughts that take away the true purpose of the act itself. How does it make me feel? Many writers may have felt this plateau of identity and purpose with the one thing they were most sure of in this life. Maybe a break is in order. Time to be the poem, so I can become the poet once again.