Words

I have words piling up inside of me, and have for years. I know they're good words. I know that I can put them together in ways that will make my points, that will tell my stories, that will do exactly what I want them to do, but, aside from small endeavors like this (and, with the number of words I have inside of me, I could blog every day and it would still be a small endeavor), I don't touch them. I can sit for hours, doodling words inside of my head, painting colorful metaphors and outlining black-and-white photos of reality, blurring the lines between fiction and non-fiction, myth-time and real-time, and I never put the words on paper.

It's been this way for years. As a teenager I wrote obsessively. I have pages and pages of poetry left over from those years, most of which are practically unreadable (at least to me) because of their simplistic nature, childish meter, and naivete. I have many stories, some of which are quality, some of which aren't, but they still at least exist.

This hasn't happened since I became an adult - words don't flow onto paper the way that they used to; they just seem to like to collect in my brain, floating around like dust, the same way as images pile up since I am the least capable visual artist I've known. (I wish to high heaven that I could draw or paint or something, but I was not blessed in that way, and there are some images that words can't carry - most of which I have in my head.)

The difference, though, is that I am still capable, I think. I just don't try for fear - I am afraid that the words will come out wrong, that they will not make sense in five years, that they won't resonate as loudly outside of my head. I am afraid of my voice, both afraid of the power I know it holds and of the power it might not hold.

I'm afraid that my words will be meaningless, because then what would the point be? I end up stopping before I write and going to read what everyone else has written, because so many people write about things that I care about that I feel inadequate and like my voice has nothing more to contribute.

More frightening to me, though, is that I'm afraid that my words will have meaning, because the ability to communicate that way carries responsibility that I don't know I'm ready to hold. I know how smart I am - never mistake my self-deprecation for low self-esteem; I know what I'm capable of. However, I don't think that my intelligence carries sufficient wisdom to try and impact anyone. I don't know what will make me feel that way. A degree? Life experience? Initiation as a priestess? I have no idea what will make me feel like I am sufficiently human to deserve the gift of voice because, whatever it is, I don't feel like I'm there yet.

I'm afraid to even say what I want for dinner, much less tame and harness these wild words that are running around inside my head. I'm afraid that my fiction will carry too much truth and that my reality will carry too little. I am afraid of my voice, afraid of what choices to make on how to use it, because it's a powerful thing. I know I use words well, and it makes me feel like a small child with a megaphone.

I'm too afraid of my own voice to even write, much less speak.

Oh, and a big "Fuck you" to a society that drilled this into my head - I haven't known a man who has felt like this yet. Either they feel like what they have to say is worth saying or they feel like they deserve the voice they've been given (and whether or not they use it is their choice, where I do feel the responsibility for actually using the gifts I've been given while simultaneously fearing them). I feel like it's something separate from me when, in reality, after I'm gone, all that will be left of me is my voice.

So, that's my truth, as a writer.