I feel eerily protective of the part in me that loves to write—the part that spends a significant portion of the day writing, yet does not want to be exposed to the criticism of others. This part of me does not want to be scrutinized, poked at, and overlooked. She longs to be celebrated, affirmed, and held gingerly. This is a tender part of me that I long to safeguard as much as possible. It’s the child that you want to keep away from all the potential dangers of this world—far away from the exposure to all that is wicked and antagonistic.
When I say I feel like I am a good enough writer, I mean that I don’t feel qualified to be a good caretaker of the inner child who loves to write. Or that I’m not a good enough conductor to the conduct the musical piece in front of me. I am an amateur, perhaps not even worthy enough to contain the notes, the words, and their ebullient liveliness. So when I write, it is with the conviction that the words I emit need to be held within me, even at the point of combustion.
This is ultimately a dialogical process between the world and I, the writing part of me and I as her carrier, and between that delicate part of me and the unforeseen variables of this world. A relationship with many trust issues, one I have yet to reconcile. But if I’m writing for my sake only without conversing with the world, how may I even attempt to build the intimacy that may transmit my writings? Life is an ongoing conversation, I used to think. Is this conversion strictly a monologue or can I move beyond myself to engage in a dialogue?
