Maybe I Prefer my Veins Closed

"[T]his business of becoming conscious, of being a writer, is ultimately about asking yourself, How alive am I willing to be?" 

— Anne Lamot

The book Wasted by Marya Hornbacher is incredibly raw and honest. The more I read, the deeper this woman digs. It’s disturbing because it has forced me to realize that I’m not digging deep enough in my writing. I’m still protecting and hiding so much, and what is the point? I think I am  afraid of what I will see…like it’s not true if it's not in writing—like maybe I will forget if I don't see it on paper. Repression. I can’t afford to do that. I need to open all of the old wounds. It’s like this famous writing quote, “There's nothing to writing. All you do is sit down at a typewriter and open a vein." Metaphorically speaking, I don't know that I can witness the blood and not pass out. I don't know that I am ready to open that vein, but I need to bleed all over every page. It should be stained and ugly, but still have something pretty about the deep red. Instead I type/write bland, colorless words. I keep thinking about all of these big ideas to write on, but not tackling them. I make excuses and try to escape just facing them head on. I feel like I am pretty honest in my writing, but I am only beginning to admit that I am not honest enough--only beginning to scratch the surface. Wasted slaps me with the cold reality of how self-aware and comfortable one must be to write a memoir--how far I have to go, yet. Readers can tell when an author’s not genuine, not self-aware, not wise. Even this entry isn't raw enough. I keep saying “I am going to do this,” but only writing about what I’m going to do isn’t good enough. I need to write truth, dig deep, bleed.