in all honesty

part of the “homework” of The Artist’s Way is, as mentioned in a previous blog entry, the daily morning pages. three pages of longhand writing about whatever’s on your mind, done every single day as soon as you get up. a purging of your brain so you can clean your mental slate and then get on with whatever creative magic you’re going to conjure.

the key, and what i’m finding to be the hardest part, is being honest.

the goal is to be totally honest about whatever minutiae or craziness or tedium is bouncing around in your head – just write it all down. as simple as that might sound, i still find myself censoring my own thoughts and writing about all kinds of other things instead. i mean, yes, the stuff i scrawl out – and, believe me, trying to write three pages in longhand when you first wake up does result in scrawl more than actual legible penmanship – is made up of thoughts that cross my mind as i go, but those daydreams and reveries and shopping lists are floating safely above a lot of the meat and potatoes of what’s really up there, gnawing away.

i’ll write about the weird banging noise coming from the apartment next door, but not about what kept me up the night before.

i’ll expound on my to-do list for the day, but never mention the things i know i’ve left undone.

i’ll ramble about the way the couch cushion feels or how my hand is starting to cramp, but carefully bypass any discussion of feelings that are pinching at my side.

in my pages this morning, i actual wrote about the pages and the fact that i fear my reluctance to be completely open and honest and free there, in the spiral notebook meant for no one’s eyes but my own, is a sad but telling reflection of my reluctance to be completely open and honest and free in my writing elsewhere. (on this blog, for example.) i mean, good grief, not being honest in my morning pages is like me editing my own diary. somewhere, i clearly still have this panic that someone is going to snatch my notebook away and read it and pass it around. that my honest thoughts and feelings will be served up and then mocked or laughed at or pitied or condemned.

it’s a scenario not unlike one where people “cook the books.” creating one set of financial ledgers for the world to see, and another, secret set that reveals the truth.

my morning pages are, to some extent, cooked. and, for the purposes of this daily exercise, it’s worrisome. as it is, i suppose, for my life as a writer.

it’s a problem i come up against time and again, that fear. see, it’s one thing to carry something around with you, and another thing to share it with other people (or a spiral notebook). and, for me, the fear of ridicule and judgment usually outweighs that urge to tell some of my story. the insidious little voice in the back of my mind whispers, “are you nuts? no one will like you if you share that! everyone’s going to think you’re a ________!”

fill the blank with your word of choice: loser, nutcase, fool, twit, coward, moron. (if you’re keeping score, “loser” is the one i fill in myself most frequently.)

the same thing happens in life. if you ask me about something, whatever it is, i’ll tell you. but if you’re waiting for me to bring it up on my own, especially if it’s more sensitive in nature, forget it. experience has taught me that sharing is risky, being honest even more so, and honestly sharing sensitive material is a surefire way to get people to distance themselves from you immediately.

as such, i’m not going to mention it if you don’t but, if you do, then i’ll tell you whatever you’d like to know. my default thinking is, “well, he/she didn’t ask, so he/she doesn’t want to know.” in some earlier blog entry way back when, i talked about the fact that it’s easier for me to write about feelings than talk about them, but that’s not actually true. it’s very easy for me to talk about feelings if i know the person to whom i’m talking is actually interested and really cares. more importantly, if he or she opens that proverbial door first, and i trust that what i say won’t promptly become fodder for lots of third-party discussion and dissection. (yes, that’s happened to me before.)

for me, there’s a huge amount of safety in being asked about my life, and an epic amount of risk in offering it up on my own. and yet, deep down, i know that’s precisely the risk i have to take, even if it does mean i wind up standing in a corner alone, twiddling my thumbs. i’m just scared to do it.

as a result of this fear, i wind up carting around a lot of baggage that i can’t seem to shake. stuff i feel like i want to get off my chest or talk about but don’t. things i need to get over or get past or let go of, but can’t. and, over time, carrying that load on my shoulders is like constantly dragging a sleeping elephant by the trunk behind me. (i have, btw, decided to name my elephant-made-of-baggage “lamont.” if i’m going to carry him with me wherever i go, he might as well have a name.) it’s tiring, and the strain begins to manifest physically.

earlier today, i was at my chiropractor’s office for my monthly adjustment. as anyone who’s read this blog over the past month knows, i’ve been having abdominal issues. so, she and i chatted about where my discomfort lies, and what i think it might be... and, most importantly, what i might be holding inside (psychologically and emotionally) that i need to release.

“is there something you can’t let go of?” my chiropractor asked. “something you’re hanging onto that you should get rid of?”

“totally,” i said immediately.

we talked about it a bit further and, as we did, i could actually feel emotions welling up inside. something as simple as being asked if anything’s the matter or why i might be holding onto pain (emotionally) was enough to stir up feelings. more importantly, feelings that i’ve worked hard to move past but ones that, in the end, i realize i haven’t actually fully processed or resolved or put to rest.

why? because that requires being honest. and being honest is, for me, very scary.

what’s my point? i’m not entirely sure. part of the point of this entry was for me to think out loud and maybe gain some understanding by writing about my fear somewhere other than my spiral notebook. getting rid of it or chipping away at it by exposing it somehow. suggestions on overcoming it are welcome, btw.

part of it was a public-service announcement, letting those of you who are actually in my life know that it’s okay to ask about stuff and things... in fact, i’m happy if you do.

and part of it was the meta aspect of confronting my own fear about writing honestly and openly and freely by writing something, however ambiguous and comparatively “safe,” honestly and openly and freely.