Shhh..I’ll tell you a secret, my terrible secret, but you can’t tell anyone.
We all have secrets, right?
My best secret is that things happen and I don’t blog about them.
But my terrible secret is truly terrible.
Are you sitting down?
I write very bad poetry. I know, you’re like, “Share it! It can’t be that bad!”
I’m tellin you, it’s that bad. I know bad poetry when I read it. I did get a bachelor’s in English, you know. And even if I hadn’t, I’ve still read plenty of good poetry in my life. I can assure you, when I die and people discover bits of poetry tucked here and there, it will not be an Emily Dickinson experience for them. Oh, someone might save one or two, but they’re perfectly suited for recycling.
Badness aside, I don’t share my poetry because my poetry emerges from pain.
I blog with humor, because this blog is about me and my neurotic perspective. Or are my neuroses writing the blog? At any rate, a good sense of humor is essential to living well. Training your inner voice to focus on gratitude and laughter is an important skill in learning to be happy. However, just like this blog, optimism is an effort. I am fiercely controlling what I type, just like I control my mindset.
I put humor in my fiction, too, because art imitates life, or not as much as life imitates art, because maybe you love Oscar Wilde more than tired cliches..but the point being, fiction writing isn’t much good if it doesn’t include a little bit of all that makes up life.
But my fiction humor runs a bit dark.
My poetry is more than a bit dark. I’m perhaps channeling it from the dark side of the moon. My natural melancholy is fuel for fretting and scribbling, but the blogging is much more controlled.
I’m telling you this terrible secret because I had a dialogue about it with another blogger the other day. The answer?
Depends on what I’m writing.
Expression is the main reason. Like most writers, I need to write to get the words out of my head.
I write this blog as a means to communicate the way anxiety is a constant backdrop in the setting that is my life. I’ve gathered piles of coping mechanisms, I’ve completed my homework lessons, and there’s no point in hoarding all the study aids. I hope I help other people understand that they’re not alone, and that their anxiety isn’t imaginary. I hope I’m providing insight. I hope people come to read a different experience, and ultimately learn the importance of laughter and gratitude. I started this blog as a rebellion against renewing my teaching license and pursuing writing instead. I maintain it because it’s good for my mental health and it serves as somewhat of a diary.
I have no idea why people actually read my blog.
I reckon it’s none of my business.
I write love notes to spill my heart’s content.
I write thank-you notes with the intent of conveying how much I value generosity.
I write arguments to win.
I write ads to sell.
I write lists to remember and to feel accomplished.
I write compliments and insults because I mean them.
I write tweets out of the narcissistic need to be adored. Apparently.
I write status updates to keep my circle informed.
I write texts because we’re out of butter.
I write fiction to entertain.
I write dialogue to remember it.
I write out forgiveness to let go.
I write poetry because no matter how hard I work to suppress pain, it oozes out here and there.
To me, poets are the bravest writers, and the good ones are the best.
Do you secretly scribble out bad poetry? Why do you write?