Just now, well a moment ago, I was enjoying a well-thought out post on K E Garland‘s page and one of her discussions with tunisiajolyn84 really struck me. Forgive me if reposting it here is not cool. If so just let me know and I’ll take it down.
I want to say thank you for the salient points and I’d humbly like to add a quote, albeit a long one, from one of my favorite writing coaches, John Flowerdew:
My words can’t do his written work justice. I just want to say that it resonates with me–this idea that inside each and every one of us exists the Writer’s self, which I like to call the Writer’s Id. It is often neglected and downtrodden, so much so that people dread their written word being read more than they do fear being hit by a car. The profundity of something so off-kilter in a species of animal that prides itself, first and foremost, on its ability to communicate.
It’s like 50 shades of Writer’s Block without the sexuality. It’s domineering with a threat of violence at any predilection that Writer’s Id appears to be improper or unlikely to win the recognition of the READER. But how… without giving it patience; without giving it Love.
To Love mustn’t we give in to loving ourselves before truly and fully feeling that for others? Can it not be said for our Writer’s Id as well? How can Writer’s Id ever truly love and be loved by the muses without first giving in to that lovers embrace of the self and allowing all the messy bits to come out like tears that burst out at the seams at the first good cathartic sobbing. Isn’t it worth it?