I was talking to myself in the shower this morning (my favorite Me+Alone place- not too many private spots in my house), wondering why in my “middle age” I have rediscovered my love of writing and feel I must get it all down now. I liken it to picking a scab. Yeah, it can be yucky, but it can be so much more.
When I have a scab, it’s there to help heal some hurt, some bleeding sore. The scab on its own will eventually fall off, sometimes only leaving a faint scar. But if you feel compelled as I often do to pick away at these things, it can really hurt and be bloody and even fester and leave ugly scars. So much more noticeable.
Sometimes the scab is bubbly and easy to remove, sometimes it is crusty and really stuck. Time and water help remove the debris. But when you step in and alter the healing process, being proactive can lead to some rewards like a smooth patch. Either way, it’s a hard thing to leave alone. You feel you have to keep picking away at it no matter what the outcome.
I know I’m probably beating this metaphor to death, but it’s just so appropriate, I can’t help myself. I have had deep wounds fester and had to take medicine and I have had surface wounds that shed their scabs quickly. I have had words and phrases stuck in my head for so long, some are really stuck and crusty and I don’t know how to get them out. I have some words that come quickly and smoothly. I’m not sure of what the resulting scars may look like, but I can’t leave it alone.
“There is nothing to writing. All you do is sit down at a typewriter and bleed.” -Ernest Hemingway
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