I need to be honest

that's why I came here

I wish I was an abstract artist - that I could get all my ‘stuff’ out and anyone who happened to see it would be free to decide what the heck it all meant without me feeling too exposed.

But art via words is a little more revealing.

When we write, what are we doing?

I know I am always trying to tug something loose.

I write to unravel stuff, to throw it out into the cold light of day.

I write to try to soothe a place in me that hurts. Not always, but often.

The practice seems endless, doesn’t it? I ask because I’m sure I won’t be alone.

And yes, you can write fiction - in whatever form. Or poetry. You can dress it all up that way. But it’s all in there, really.

It’s raw. It’s on the page, in a relatively recognisable shape.

Readers aren’t stupid. Ain’t no fool like the writer who thinks their readers are stupid.

I write to (at least try) and tell the truth. To paint a picture of the way life feels.

I’m trying to dig to the bottom of a very deep hole. I have no idea what I’m looking for, but my fingers are raw from a lifetime of it.

And yet.

I’m not sure I ever manage to get deep enough. And I think I could, if I was brave enough.

What do we do about the need to be honest when we write?

How do we find the courage to write truthfully when most of the time, the truth is exposing and uncomfortable? Some of the time it’s excruciating.

There are always winners and losers with the truth.

Often, the journalist in me shies away from telling just my truth. It feels so one-sided and I find myself having to make mention of myriad scenarios and views.

And then I question, is that the journalist in me? Or is it the woman in me, in a patriarchy - saying ‘don’t mind me and my silly views - I might be wrong. What do I know’.

That’s problematic. I don’t know the answer. It’s a bit of everything I suppose.

But I’m not wrong about my own feelings.

And I do know - a lot.

And I shouldn’t give two shiny shits about saying so.

I know when I have read the truth. It’s the writing that makes me feel seen. It’s the kind of writing that makes me rejoice in the relief in not being alone. The kind of writing that makes me say ‘yes, yes that’s right. That is how it feels. That IS how I feel.’

And that’s the kind of writing I know I’m here to do.

I am writing truthfully here about the things think.

But perhaps I need to be more honest about the way life feels.

How it presses, too hard on sore spots - a bully, that needs looking in the eye and pressing back.

P

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