The Trouble with Bleeding

There's this quote I have up on my wall by Ernest Hemingway that says, "There's nothing to writing. All you do is sit at a typewriter and bleed." I like this quote. It's somewhat ironic and does describe what it takes to write. I'm currently taking a creative non-fiction writing class. This has sparked my writing/bleeding. I've been bleeding all over the place (I'm speaking figuratively, of course.) Getting myself to bleed is not a problem. The problem is the quality of my blood. It just seems like every time I write something, even if it has a good strong beginning, it eventually turns into shit. I get frustrated and stop trying. I'm bleeding stuff no respectable American Red Cross volunteer would accept as a donation. It's immensely irritating.

Another thing that's not making it any easier is the class itself. I've read work from five other classmates so we can workshop them. They're really good. I mean, REALLY good. Theirs have substance and meaning and raw truth. They have Grade A quality blood. It depresses me. After reading their stuff, my stuff looks even more pathetic. The biggest thing is most of these people are writing about really heavy stuff in their lives. Divorce, addiction, single-motherhood, and lots of other painful subjects. Me, I'm not writing about that stuff. I mean, I could. I've got a lot of painful shit that has happened or is happening right now in my life. I could talk about my constant battle with depression/suicide. I could write about my nine year struggle with cutting and self-injury. I could talk about me being betrayed by the very women I called sisters and being kicked out of my sorority and forced to move back home. I could even talk about how I have no friends here and spend every night alone. I do have painful shit to write about. But I don't want to. I don't want to write about my pain anymore. I'm sick of it. I guess I'm so used to oozing out pain that it's become rather trite to me. Just the thought of writing about any of those subjects fills me with a jaded disgust. I don't want to bring it up anymore. I'm so tired of writing about pain. I want to write something else. I want to prove to myself that I can write something else, that not everything I write has to be dripping with pain. But I'm afraid it won't hold up compared to everyone else's.

I know I'm not the best writer. I have miles to go before I sleep. But I do want to write something meaningful that is still me. I guess I'm still trying to find my voice and something worthwhile to write about. I started something today that seems very promising. I hope it'll turn out okay. My turn to have something to hand out to the entire class to workshop is on Friday. I'm scared out of my mind. I just hope that in the course of my bleeding for Friday, my blood won't be so muddled.

Love you.
Mean It.