I wrote a lot during my middle school/high school time. By the age of 18, I had written over 500 pages of poetry. It’s all gone.
I don’t know what happened to it. I used to keep all of my writing in a black binder, but I couldn’t tell you what happened to it. Something happened when I was 18-19 years old that was so emotionally traumatic that even my knack for writing dark odes was helpless in saving me. I went from feeling like I was living in a world of darkness to being hollow. I couldn’t even feel the darkness. It was like the writer within had died along with my muse, twin graves that I wanted to visit but didn’t know how.
Although I had stopped writing, I tried on several occasions to find that binder. I would practically tear our house apart, from the top floor to the basement. I wanted to write again, and I had hoped that reading through those old poems would awaken my muse. Maybe if I could’ve been reminded of what it was like, I could replicate that feeling of release that I got when I purged my thoughts on a piece of lined paper. But it never happened. I never found that binder. Over 500 pages of poetry gone forever.
I did eventually start to write again, but only essays on political issues that I felt passionate about at the time. I even contemplated a regular contribution to a state magazine as a way to embrace writing again. My first column with the magazine was on the persecution of transpeople and the social construct of gender. To many people, it would be quite snooze-worthy. To others, it would piss them off. For me, I envisioned a regular contribution of post-second-wave feminist ramblings that I would call “The Angry Beaver.” As seductive as I found the idea, I never pursued it.
Through those years I tried many times to write new poetry and short stories. I never kept any of it because it all sucked. I decided that I had to accept that the trauma I felt in my late teens was really that part of me dying. And regardless of how hard I tried, there was no resurrecting her.
Then it happened. I had an idea. An original idea. It had been so long since I had one that it came as a bit of a shock, like someone had slapped me. That original idea is turning into my first novel, “The Source.” It’s like seeing your first love again and although you have both changed, you are still so deeply connected that a different type of love blossoms.
My love affair with writing has started again. My muse didn’t need to be resurrected. She just needed a 17-year vacation to sort some things out, and now we’re both more mature and mentally prepared to get the story out to the masses.
Wait for it. It’s coming soon.