Myspace Blog "Timidity"

Subject - Being (to be) Verb - Subject Compliment (Adjectival).

Sentence Pattern II.

I am inspired.

Subject - Intransitive Active Verb

Sentence Pattern VI.

I write.

Subject - Transitive Active Verb - Direct Object.

Sentence Pattern VII.

I write my soul.


My greatest fear, which I am living here and now, is timidity to write. Do I know how to write, reader? Yes, I know how to write. I have given up being humble on the point. I can write so that you feel five inches away from a lover's mouth, their breath condensing on the little hairs of your cheek and, softly, their hands whispering over your body in long strokes unaware of minutes and days and the little wrinkles on your forehead which grow into chasms as the years pass.

I can write.

So why DON'T I write? I'm terrified. Not of criticism--I can take it. Not of accolades--I crave them. But of the honesty.

You see, to write a sentence like "hands whispering over your body in long strokes..." is to invest my little heart into a sentence in a way which, after all, cannot be anything less than terrifying.

Look at Hemingway. For all his angry men and cold protagonists (and horrifying grammar devoid of stylistic cause, in my opinion), he was honest. Say what you will, he was always honest. He always invested.

I have ample time to write. And I do write. But not enough. Not what I should be writing, what I could be writing.

Why don't I write my novels?

Because I am terrified you might figure me out, reader. And, while I certainly have a clearer picture of myself than most, the one called Michelle is a non-sensical, irrational creature guided so much be impulse, depravity, and--well, yes--real beauty that even I lack the faculties to fully understand her. She stands around inside of me, making uncertain demands and wagging her finger in a tell-tale way that means, "It has to be like this, of course: you know it does." And who am I to disagree with myself?

I hate rhetorical questions. Forgive me, reader.

Ah, but when I am honest in my writing. When I combine my passion for language with my love of life and its small miracles and great defeats--those little pieces I've written where I've said it, and done it, and been it, through and through... I know I've accomplished something rare--something truly of worth.

Forgive me, reader: I hate abstract vagueries.

So I am off to write. To attempt honesty. I need to relearn courage and boldness. Sure, I can write. And a musician can play music. But it takes heart indeed, as any artist will tell you, to invest.