I am not a sad person. Honestly, I’m usually super happy, including many times when I cry. I’m a cryer, it happens … I’m a girl. Crying, for me, will happen for anything from a death of a friend (high school) to someone saying kind words.
Sometimes, when I write (things I choose not to post) I see a side of me I don’t often see. Others don’t often see it either. How can you show someone a part of you that you yourself hardly know exists.
Sad things have happened in my life. Sad things have happened in the world around me. Sad things can be seen anywhere you or I look. Yet, I typically want to see he happy things. The things that bring joy to people.
The sad side of me doesn’t come out very often, but when it does … it really does. This week I have felt the need to write. To write things I didn’t know I even felt about me, about people, and about situations.
Ernest Hemingway said, ““There is nothing to writing. All you do is sit down at a typewriter and bleed.” How true that is. When I sit down to write and I write honestly about things I feel and things I know to be true, those tend to be my best writings. That has been true of many great writers (I do not compare to any great writers, or even mediocre ones at that).
Bleeding comes from the smallest of cuts to gashes deep within our skin. This week my writing has been a result of deep gashes I’ve refused to mend or acknowledge. I write best when I bleed. As I sat down and began writing, I realized the words were coursing through my fingertips like the blood that courses through my body. These words were words I didn’t know I had in me.
Hemingway wrote honestly. He poured truth out of his fingertips onto his typewriter into his books and through to the public. I never appreciated his writing until I began to bleed on the pages that lay before me. I felt I began to understand Hemingway a little better and almost relate with him in a way. I will never be one of the great writers, but I’ll continue writing in hopes of someday writing something decent.
I may not have a typewriter, although I would love to have access to one again, but I understand what it means to sit down and bleed all over the paper. These are the writings where I let the blood flow freely and spill over onto every page. These are the writings I feel are my best work, but also the ones I’ll never post on a blog or send to be published, or even show to a friend. Showing them to a friend means exposing part of me and opening myself up to vulnerabilities I have yet to fully discover within myself.
So I shall silently bleed on paper. Until I find an outlet. Until I find my voice. In this, I am content. For others need not see the blood.
At least not yet …