All day today, I struggled with an emotion that I did not truly understand. I wrote a poem this morning which conveyed this voice that kept saying “speak another way.” It was an unmistakable ringing that kept going on and on until later it somehow subsided.
I didn’t really pay much attention to it after that. But I think after that and towards around 5-6pm I felt this dark mood penetrating deep in me. I read a post on how poetry was supposed to be written and went to look back at my old stuff I wrote. I wasn’t too happy with how I approached the way I wrote. I somehow lacked the vocabulary and a mind that really knew how to play with imagery or by that metaphors. My style was simple. And it seemed that what it looked like, the stuff I wrote were more like prose, not poetry.
I guess some could be categorized as poetry. Some might fall into the category of prose. I think my style of writing has some sort of philosophical musings infused in them. Well, not that I know anything about philosophy but I love the subject. Anyway, the books I read are theological textbooks. I tried to read novels but I just couldn’t. I think the problem with me when I read novels is, I tend to imagine my own stories after that. Or I try to reflect ideas embedded in the few pages that I read. I think that’s why I read mostly textbooks. I know, I’m sort of a nerd because of that. But I’m trying to start reading poets and books from other accomplished poets.
Anyway somehow I diverted from what I’m supposed to say going the route of what books I read.
So I read through my old poems and other stuff I wrote and got very dissatisfied with how I wrote. I got pretty depressed, so I went out for a walk and grabbed some food for dinner. All the while nursing the depressive state that I was in. I’m glad that there were no cliffs for me to climb and plunge myself to death. Well, not exactly to that point really. My sanity is still very much in tact, thank goodness! I wouldn’t want the headlines in the paper to read, “Wanna be poet (chuckles) plunges to his death.” Now that will not speak anything good about me.
When I got back from my walk and check my blog, R, who blogs at Red Lake Write, wrote a comment that enlightened me to what “speak another way” somewhat meant. I don’t really know how to explain it, it’s like my emotions were way ahead of my brain. And when my brain finally caught up, and just like that, I just understood what it meant.
It’s funny really, my emotions communicating to me feelings that I did not understand at that time. In some mystical way, my brain just caught up only when I read the comment from R. Then everything came full circle. I think I’m somehow gonna try to “speak/write another way” if I can really do that, or was it really telling me to just be myself?
In a world where being original is always the hardest thing to do, or just being yourself for that matter, where do we really draw the line of finding our own voice and constantly improving on how we write?