On Writing

I never realized how much we write who we are, what we have experienced. I remember writing all through elementary school and high school; it came naturally to me. I would just write. Whatever came to mind was fine.

I now find myself wondering how to freewrite again because everything that I try to say comes out in two syllables--Derek.

I remember my freshman year of college. Composition class had this magnetic force that pulled me into Buhl hall. Don't worry about your Anatomy homework; just write, it told me. I listened. My prof, Joonna, had us freewrite often. At first, I was a bit baffled. Freewriting had previously been a do-in-your-free-time; don't-expect-a-grade-for-this; you-were-what?-writing? kind of ordeal. But she gave us 10-20 minutes to just write whatever. Some days, I felt insightful, and words fell out of me, relieving the pressure of a week's worth of oh-my-gosh-this-is-college. Other days, I felt I had nothing to say; I would write about the squirrels (and there were plenty in Waynesburg), or I would just let odd arrays of consonants and vowels make their way to the page, as if I had thrown up alphabet soup. But I was writing.

I'm a firm believer that you must read much to write well. While my ratio of reading to writing has certainly been weighing heavy on the reading side, I began to wonder...what did I write about before this past year? I think back to essays from my first two years of college--nature, childhood, travel. I think about this past year, even through today--Derek, Derek, Derek.

I'm torn. Part of me thinks that by writing about Derek, I can make things better. I can make it as if he were never even gone. Another part of me just wishes that I could stop writing about Derek so that I can remember what it's like to freewrite on a page with room for other facets of my life. But that part also thinks that in doing so would be to: a) deny that Derek is no longer here b) put him too much in the past tense and/or c) put too much distance between him and me. I will never stop wishing that he were still here.

Last fall, I took a course entitled Intermediate Poetry. While it was one of the most fulfilling courses in my poetic studies, I do not feel that I got as much out of it as I should have--by that, I mean that I did not take from that class what I would have expected to, rather, it shaped a period of poems battling loss and God--topics that feel way too big for my britches, but I can't put off facing them. And yet, I am still caught in that period; I try to move past it, but then I feel like I am letting go--letting go of the atmosphere that guided my life those first few months, letting go of the community that pulled me through each day, letting go of the depression that tried to keep me bound to August 27th, letting go of Derek.

While I can wish that I want that the past year had never happened, I can't change the fact that it has. I can't erase the experiences. I can't forget all that has shaped me--and it has. I am a different person and a different writer today than I was one year, twenty-five days, thirteen hours, and thirteen minutes ago. Maybe I don't need to tell you that, but sometimes I need to remind myself--I have been shaped by my experiences.

The hard part is just accepting that it's okay.