Why I stopped writing

Writing is not my forte; at least not at this point in my life. What was once my passion has slowly diminished to a shadow, somewhere in my subconscious. An idea that resurfaces once in a while, that triggers a need from within…to get the many feelings out and free up some space in my head — space that is brimming with random thoughts of aimless and essential interactions — past and present…of daily stresses, regrets, desires, burdens that I carry…heavy or weightless. As if writing out these thoughts and feelings would give me some sense of peace…release…maybe clarity.

I wonder why I stopped writing….

As a young girl, I remember running out of pages in my diary, and the excitement that consumed me on the way to the stationary to buy another — anticipating which new book cover would attract me to fill its blank pages with my nonsense. The nonsense that became sense, as I grew older and actively engaged my thoughts. My entries matured with me. My sentences showing more substance as my experiences evolved into uncharted territories. Phrases that I could never articulate as eloquently through speech, came naturally as I scrambled to get them on paper — in fear that I would lose momentum if I stopped. Writing evoked an awareness in me — a space in my mind where past grievances and future uncertainties lost their perimeters in the present moment.

It wasn’t until I turned 20 years old that I stopped writing in that magical book. Why? I didn’t have much privacy at home. Despite best efforts to keep my writing sacred, my all-too protective and meddling mother decided she needed to invade my space…so she took a peek one day. There wasn’t much content she could oppose of, except of course for the entry on January 15, 2000; the entry where I explicitly described what it was like to lose my virginity, and the many emotions it ignited. The encounter with my mom was embarrassing, to say the least…so I stopped writing.

Fast forward to age 24. Finding love inspired me to write, once again. This time, in the form of poetry. Not the “roses are red, violets are blue” type shit…real, deep verses that even won me a spot in a small publication — though it didn’t award me the love I so craved from my subject. Despite this, I loved having an outlet. I felt safe in sharing my poems with friends and family. Until, that is…the day I regret sharing that side of me with anyone at all.

I remember as if it were yesterday. Riding the LIRR on the way into the city, for what was supposed to be a fun night out. Upset over a relationship gone sour, I couldn’t hide my sad eyes. Katie, a friend of a friend…asked what was wrong. I explained, and shared a handwritten copy of the poem I had spent hours and tears on…the poem I was contemplating on giving to my lost love, that I also carried in my purse for some strange reason. Katie vaguely skimmed through it, her disinterest evident…commenting after, how “beautiful” it was. I sensed she wasn’t genuine — my inkling confirmed shortly after, as she turned the other way and commented to a friend how “gay” it was that I had written a poem for some “stupid guy”. Maybe she was right…but the cruelness of her words, and her carelessness — knowing I was right there and able to hear her mocking me…the laugh they shared at my expense has echoed in my memory from time to time, since then. I never shared that poem again…so I stopped writing.

Here I am at age 36, writing again. A couple of circumstances have inspired me this time around.

First — making the acquaintance of a great writer. Someone I didn’t have to know for more than a few hours to realize that a man of such caliber, wit, charm, intelligence, and character, would be very hard to come across again in life (shout-out to Marcolino!)

Second — through reading the works of a recently deceased, beautiful young woman who was a true talent and beautiful soul…someone I didn’t know personally, but found myself relating to on so many levels, through her writing. Someone whose memory will stay with me for a lifetime. May your soul rest eternally in peace, Karina Vetrano.

Will I stop writing again? Maybe…but if I do, you can be damn sure that it won’t be out of fear of being shamed, judged, or laughed at. I’m older, and I’d like to think wiser now…knowing that other’s thoughts or criticisms do not define me.

I’m not looking for recognition, nor praise…just the outlet I once craved — a place I can feel safe in bringing my scattered thoughts to life…a place I can be expressive…and promote self-healing — emotionally, psychologically…a place that will give me a sense of peace…release…maybe clarity.