The Watcher In Writing

In high school, my favorite English teacher had us read 'Watcher at the Gates'.  This article came to mind today, as I fidgeted in front of my computer screen, scrolling through drafts of posts that are written but have never been given a final click.  I too have a watcher.

In this space, there is a struggle.  To tell the truth, or to keep the heavy stuff to myself?  And it is a dilemma that I've found myself fighting for months.  On the one hand, I believe writing saves.  It's been a lifeline for me, therapy, an exercise of hope.  I also believe that to share such writing with anyone who lands upon it is an exercise of courage, vulnerability; a leap into the dark.  When I let myself get there.  But because the move is bold and requires a certain braveness, I've been placing this space in tight parameters, keeping my eye on where it goes, rarely giving it an un-restrictive pass.

I consider my own watcher; who he/she is, what they're after, why they want to stop me from being productive, and fully honest in my own space?  My mind floods over stories, stories that I'd like to tell, but the watcher keeps his finger pressed firm to the cover.  He shakes his head at me, saying, it's not worth it.  No one cares.  Why do you still think about that?  Move on, just move on.  Are you sure you can even call yourself a writer?  What is this stuff?  And that's about the time I hit save and close the draft.

To open a vein, so to speak, and let the words fall out onto the white space, over the interwebs to a stranger, a friend, a loved one, has power.  It's why I read the words from other blogger friends.  It's why I believe in writing.  It's why I want to teach writing.  It's why I know I have a duty to write.

To write uninhibited and free with courage is what's on the other side of this struggle that has pooled up around me, soaking my shoes, causing my feet to grow cold.  It's the place that I believe I'm supposed to be; a place to channel and navigate if I am to be a good writer.  Although my watcher tells me, don't worry about the truth...find something else to write about,  I know better.  I know better than to succumb to a fear of the truth, or what that might look like in curved, heavy letters, strung across a clean white page.

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