About writing

I want to forget how to write. So I can start over. Learn to place the right words in the right order.
Why do I think I can’t write? Because I fail to entrust the richness in my mind to the page?
Does that richness even exist? Maybe I’m just imagining it — literally.
Or is it more that what I do manage to write doesn’t move people the way I wish it would?

Writing takes great effort, which is why I often leave it be.
This piece almost didn’t get written either, despite many good intentions.
And when I do put in the effort, I squeeze out a text with great difficulty. A text no one cares about.
I’m exaggerating, of course. But not all that much.
My attempts at getting published never lead anywhere.

It frustrates me — because I don’t even think the rejection is entirely unfair.
What frustrates me even more is that I’m frustrated in the first place.
I always thought I was writing for myself.
How pitifully sentimental.

So yes, time to start over.
To search for some supposed pure origin where words still come straight from the heart.
To write down each letter with joy — or not write it when the joy is absent.
Would there be a perfect method, one that even someone like me could use to create Literature?
Of course not. The sooner I bury that idea, the better.
Better still: stop wanting to make Literature altogether.

The most joy I’ve ever had in writing came from letters —
when I stopped trying to say things as beautifully as I could,
and just tried to describe as accurately as possible what I felt for someone,
whether it was longing or anger,
and let myself be swept along by my own words.