Wrestling with Words

I struggle with writing, but it’s all I want to do.

The ideas I wish to explore, manifest at the most inopportune of times—in the shower, moments from falling asleep, inebriated by two glasses of wine. I wish I was one of those writers who can sit down in front of their notebook/computer/typewriter and just go nuts, crashing the keys down in tempo with their racing thoughts.

But I’m not that type of writer.

When inspiration comes (once in a blue moon) I have to jump on it immediately. Because if I don’t react quickly enough, the muse moves on. And while I feel fortunate that my poetry has slowly (very slowly) turned into a sort of “consistent” writing practice, my creative writing feels as though it’s fallen behind.

Perhaps that’s the trade off from writing full-time at my previous day job, and now that my writing load has lessened I’m struggling to unlearn the corporatization of my written voice. 

I want my writing to feel like me. To have that personal edge that a content writer in a far off corner office can’t replicate. I don’t want my work mistaken for chatgpt or some other form of manufactured soullessness.

I want to write with my voice steering the ship.

But instead of writing what I want to write, I’m here writing about writing.

You could say I’m wrestling with the written word. 

I wonder what Jacob felt when he wrestled with the angel. Did he know what he was doing would be great? Or was it just tedious and painful, a little too drawn out?

Writing (again and again) about my struggles to write, feels a lot like deja vu. I know I’ve been here before, my deleted drafts and shittier poems remind me of this. 

Like many subjects I attempt to talk/write about, writing is one that dominates my mind. It’s a contentious love affair—more cold than hot. 

I have no doubt that over time (if I can manage it) my writing here will improve and become something more important/interesting.

So nonetheless, I persist.

Writing circular thoughts once more. Sizing the word up as we walk around the ring. My mouth guard firmly in place, my muscles tense for the first lunge. Grappling for a small victory—a foot stepped out of line, a good grip, an unexpected twist.

My back hits the mats. 

The word wins another round.