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I’m not going to lie.  I’m feeling very conflicted at the moment. I’ve been writing for two days.  I’ve been alone in my room for the most part. I’ve been studying the written word.  Taking the time to do the one thing that I love more than anything else in the whole world—the thing that I have almost no time for between school and work.  But I’ve been living the life the last two days, and will be for three more. 

I was supposed to have my wisdom teeth out but the surgery was cancelled last minute.  I decided that I would spend my time the writers who I admire and the books I learn the most from.  The first day I spent time with Steven Pressfield’s The War of Art exploring the roots of my resistance.  I wrote about the first poem I ever wrote and how a fire destroyed them all in 2005.

Today I remembered things.  I used Natalie Goldberg’s book Old Friend From Away to help me remember the things that mark my past and shape my future.  I wrote about the contradiction of my desires to travel the world forever and to be grounded in one place, living quietly day-to-day. 

Tonight, after a friend’s art show and drinks with some friends, I came home to edit these two pieces.  And there it was.  A tiny voice whispering tiny lies.  “You can’t write.” 

Even as I write this I can’t help but think that these things I am typing on this screen are not real words.  That they make no sense at all and that the idea that anyone, anywhere, at anytime would ever want to read them is absurd. 

I keep highlighting my sentences with notes in the margin that read “I know what I’m trying to say, but I’m not saying it.”  Isn’t that the point of writing?  To say it? 

I’m starting to feel crazy.  Like famous female poet crazy.  At this point I think the difference between me becoming a Sylvia Plath or a Mary Oliver is knowing when to stop and sleep.  Sleep heals everything.