Archive | August, 2015

Confession

21 Aug

I woke up this morning with a feeling in my stomach as though I needed to confess my sins. That is the only way to describe how it felt, how it feels.

I need to confess my sins.

But what sins? That I love too much? That I care too deeply? That my passion is overwhelming some days, and that when I can’t keep it in, I leak from my eyes?

The only one I’m hurting is myself.

Maybe that is the sin that needs confessing. That my passion is killing me. Maybe not tomorrow, or even in a year…but without an outlet, it just swims around in my head, lurking behind my eyes. If you let yourself, you will see it there, struggling to be contained.

I suppose that is the difference between my sins and others. Others sins are based on a will of God; my sins are based on injustice to myself.

Thank You For Bleeding: A Love Letter To Writers

1 Aug

john pavlovitz

Bleeding pen

There’s something all writers know, something that those who don’t write will never truly understand:

To write, is to bleed.

The act of regularly opening yourself up in full view of an army of strangers is choosing to be exposed; to consent to have one’s unprotected innards trespassed upon and rooted through. This vulnerability comes at a great personal price, one that is never really ever repaid. The writer is always in the red.

Though the discipline of writing is one that usually begins in solitude, its evolution is quite the opposite. In the quiet places one bravely breaks open the contents of his or her heart and chooses to share them publicly, not knowing the reception they will receive after they leave the safety of secret. Once outside of the protected confines of one’s head, their every syllable is scrutinized and dissected, parsed and poured over.

Most writers tend to be a confounding collection of paradoxes, having…

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