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But I Have Nothing To Say...

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...That's my problem.

I want to write, but I never feel like I have anything to say.

I'm not an interesting person. My own life bores me. I have a fairly active imagination, but something happens in the process of getting it to the page. My inner critic I guess. She sits by my ear, and she doesn't have an off button.

But all of this applies to fiction. Writing a blog is another thing, with its own set of problems. Mainly being brave enough to be vulnerable. I read a quote somewhere (I wish I had written down the source) that if you don't feel vulnerable when you're writing, then you're not doing it right...or something. That was a definite paraphrase. Anyway, those words set something off in me the way hearing a certain truth does. I don't like being vulnerable. But I can only write from my heart when I'm willing to do so.

Now what does this have to do with writing a blog for DF? Surely I can write about whatever I want as long as its vaguely depression related. Hell, I could write about my list of baby names. I don't expect many people would find that to be scintillating material, but I get the feeling this is mainly supposed to be about me. Sharing myself. Working things out through words. I love words, but maybe they don't love me. One of us is failing the other more than 50 percent of the time. The ideas, when I have them, don't make it to the page (or the screen) the way they were meant to while they were still floating around in my head. Damn critic. I know she's to blame.

So I guess I did have something to write about after all: how my critic is ruining my writing life. She's so stifling. Like an overbearing, controlling parent. I need to learn to tune her out the way I do my other long-winded relatives. But admittedly, I find her quite protective. It's a unhealthy relationship for sure.

Well, it's something to ponder anyway. 

I think the klonipin might be kicking in.


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What you just wrote speaks volumes, Evalynn. That da mn inner critic, though. I wish it would shut up! Sometimes it's not about what one writes expicitly. Sometimes it's about the words and thoughts that are absent, but implicitly there for one with the patience to listen.

I was about to write something in my blog and perhaps I will. Or not. But I'll mention it here. 

Somewhere in the British National Gallery, off Trafalgar Square, London, is a painting called "Philosophy" by the artist Salvator Rosa (a bit of an art buffer, me). A dark serious young man surrounded by a bleak landscape holds a scroll with the words "Be quiet unless your speech be better than quiet" (Latin in the painting). 

I believe there's a reference to stoicism in the scroll, in which all unnecessity is stripped away and one is to live and express oneself with the bare essentials. But it could also  be understood as listening to the silence that is between our perceptions and thoughts. Letting that silence settle in, instead of frantically filling our minds with the clutter of the world.

Sometimes it's the silence between words that speaks more than the words themselves. Sometimes our silence is louder than all the shouting we can ever do or the words we write.

 Sometimes it's worth listening to the silence. The words will come out when they have to. You ARE an interesting person with a lot to say, Evalynn, judging by the words you wrote and the silence between your words.

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