Why Not Write?

I think one of the reasons I don’t write is that I know I will drop into that mode of this-is-what-I-want-to-do.  And I think of everything else I want to do, and have to do.  Maybe I tell myself consciously and subconsciously that I need hours to write.  If I don’t have hours, I don’t start.  Maybe I am not feeling that overflow of creativity.  So I don’t start.  Maybe I don’t want to go the places writing takes me sometimes.  Often times.  To the deeper places in my psyche.  To a deeper understanding.  An uncovering.  Therapy.  Maybe sometimes I want to live on the surface, instead of below it.  Inside it.  Maybe it is my tablet and how the letters jump around on the screen randomly putting themselves on different lines.  Maybe it is knowing the best time to write is when I can submerge myself for hours and I often can’t seem to give myself permission to do that.  Or I want to be outside moving in nature instead of sitting and writing.

But, here I am today.  Writing.  Sitting legs outstretched on my cranberry colored couch.  My balcony door opposite me, cracked open letting just a hint of the cool fall air in.  I think about you, my reader.  Reading this when I send it off into cyberspace.

An adorable plump pumpkin sits on my little café table in the living room, which I have recently tidied up.  The standing lamp that I moved to the corner is gently illuminating the room.  The photo of “my guy”, surrounded by hearts, still hangs on my easel next to the dried roses.  His picture courtesy of National Geographic magazine.  I’m not even sure what the ad was for, but his face was friendly and his eyes smiled at me.  I have yet to actually meet him in person.  But it will happen when the timing is right.  Not him literally necessarily but someone with his likeness.

It is a deliciously beautiful morning.  I realize I am having some of those inhibiting thoughts about writing.  A little voice somewhere in the recesses of my mind says, you are not allowed to use your time this way, you should be doing things that are constructive, productive.  There are things that need to be done.

I scoop another spoonful of my green-blue smoothie into my mouth, look around the room, and feel much gratitude for what I have, for the life and space I have created for myself.  The sun peaks out a bit more, shining in from the patio door.  I think of my friend and how we are supposed to be collaborating on a project that I haven’t given time to yet.  She is an amazing role model for me in the area of writing, and so many other areas in life.  She recently completed and published her third book. I consider her very disciplined.  I consider myself, not as much.  Although I know others  who would disagree.

I hear a chainsaw and lovely birdsong outside the balcony door.  A nice contrast.  Both pleasant to me at this moment.  I’m feeling much love for the fresh fall air gently reaching my nostrils, the exposed skin of my hands and ankles. Enjoying that slight tantalizing chill.  I love looking at my chair on the balcony, which I rarely sit in, and the plant on the ledge still green, even though we’ve had at least one frost here in Mid-Missouri.

I feel guilty writing about such things.  Things that seem shallow, unimportant.  I feel guilty about even being happy, when there is so much wrong with the country I live in.  So much violence, fear, and hatred.  I have to remind myself that the more I am happy and at peace, the more my country, and my world, is happy and at peace.

But it’s hard.  My mind goes back to how much do I do, actually do, directly related to the sickness which results in so much blood shed, in large, and small numbers.  How can I raise my sons, who are all but raised, in such a place?  A place where children are shot in schools, all the way from pre-school to University.  Where people are gunned down when they go out to dance on the weekend, or shot as they study their religion in a place of worship.  A place where being a young male of color triggers fear and aggression by the very people assigned to protect.  Where young women are sexually assaulted far too often.  And judges take the good-ole-boy stance in favor of the “victimized” young man who will now not have the opportunities in life he once would have had.  A place where alcohol is glamorized and addiction is commonplace.  A place where far more children than we would like to imagine live in poverty and see abuse at the hands of those who brought them into the world.

These are all negatives.  I do know that the good outweighs the bad, but when the bad is so bad, what’s one to do?

I believe the answer lies in our countries social history, especially our European American and African American history.  As well as how the social aspect affects, and has affected, the psychological.  Culturally for those of us who are descendants of white Europeans, the majority in the U.S., we have been raised to be nice and polite, to use euphemisms, to not air our dirty laundry, to not bother others with our problems, keep it behind closed doors, private family matters.  I’m sure I taught my sons some of the same “rules”.  Now I’m trying to turn things around.  I’m saying stand up.  Yell.  Make some noise.  Dare to be different.  Don’t sit quietly and wait for others to speak up.  Tell people what you need.  What you want.  What you think.  What you feel.  And remember, it’s okay to feel.

I am hoping, and I do believe, from my own personal transformation, that the pen is mightier than the sword.  So, no matter how long the intervals, I’ll keep putting my words down on paper.  I’ll continue to speak a little louder as well.  This, and sharing my love, is my way to help shift the culture to a healthier place.

Thank you Dear Reader for your time and attention.  I am forever grateful that you have an interest in my words, thoughts, and feelings.  And please remember, I would love to hear yours as well.

With much love,


Copyright Suzanne Norton 2016


About Suzanne

I write poetry, flash fiction, quotes and personal essays. Words flow forth like a river that cannot be dammed. Writing is my soul.
This entry was posted in Change, Change Agent, Change the world..., Essay, Personal Essay, Uncategorized, Writing and tagged , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , . Bookmark the permalink.

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