I've been thinking a lot about writing lately. As someone who used to have writer's block for so long they just gave up completely, to the point where they just stopped even thinking about writing altogether simply because even that was overwhelming, I have now come to a point where I simply think about writing. I guess this is the incredibly slow journey to finishing a piece of writing.
I feel as though I am 18 again, wishing on every rare star in the small London sky that I could complete a book, finish a short story, finalise an idea. And then I found poetry. Short little narratives tucked into stanzas and gently covered with metaphors like being coated with a blanket by a loved one when you fall asleep on the couch. I had already said goodbye to poetry, thinking it the end of a chapter, when in actuality I needed it to save me, and perhaps I need saving again.
A part of me always felt guilty for not having the most famous poets to mind, ready to quote Sylvia or Bukowski on command, and this meant I wasn't a real poet. it would be rude to ignore the greats and share my own poems with the world. But now I am starting to see poetry differently, for me anyway.
Poetry is a gift. From who I don't know, but I thank them anyway. To portray such difficult emotions in neatly wrapped pieces of art, sometimes quick, sometimes taking longer to get the ribboned bow just right, is a saviour I didn't know I needed.
I must be creative, I just have to be, and poetry is a medium that can offer the most artistic expression with the least amount of expectation to reach 50,000 words or 400 pages; it can be as long or as short as you want, it can even rhyme, it can make sense only to you and it still counts.
I've been reading so much lately. I honestly can't remember the last time I read like this, one of the perks of being an adult out in the scary world I guess, as opposed to students always being bombarded with texts you don't particularly care for (or maybe most of us simply chose the wrong degree, see: me). Adults with normal jobs and basic responsibilities have lots of time to read. I never cared for classics, probably because of reading Shakespeare to death at school, but now I am finding myself looking back, intrigued.
I joined bookstagram recently and I absolutely love it. I've seen so many gals talk about their love for Emily Brontë, Emily Dickinson, Jane Austen, women who to be honest, sound right up my alley. And even though I own quite a few classic books (more than I realised until I made this post) I have always been apprehensive to read them.
What if I don't understand them? Am I stupid? Do I not love literature as much as I claim? What if I don't like any of them? I want to feel how others feel when they open up the pages written by the greats, feel comforted by words written in a time when their existence wasn't even a thought let alone materialised (how incredible is that?)
But what if I don't "get" them?
These fears I'm afraid will have to be swept aside. Wuthering Heights has been eyeing me up for the past couple of weeks now, and as the evenings become longer and the air becomes crisper, the time for classics appears just right. I just wish the leaves would change quicker to provide the perfect backdrop already.
So I’m going to dive into the classics and try not to feel too disheartened or give up straight away if I don’t feel the sparks. I think I’m going to start with Wuthering Heights and then maybe return to Pride and Prejudice, one I studied at school, which I don’t remember particularly disliking if I’m honest. It would be nice to explore those books again as an adult, without the looming fear of a grade hanging over my head.
Looking forward to the leaves changing, walking through chilly London streets in and out of bookshops in my boots and long winter coat, I’m going to try drinking chai lattes and of course, lots of reading.