We’ve all heard it before: write what you know, write from your heart. I did that today. It was like giving blood and having the nurse walk away and forget about me. I gave all of me, everything I had.
No one ever talks about the repercussions of writing from the heart. If what you’re writing about shatters your heart, then what good are you the next day? I feel utterly spent, depleted, empty. Yes, it felt good to write the essay. It needed to be written; it burst forth from me like an overdue baby. It had to be said. And yet, there’s nothing left of me to give to my family, my kids, hell, I even told the cat to leave me alone.
As I finished the essay, mopped up the puddle of tears that had accumulated at the edge of my keyboard, I wondered what to do next. I thought about posting it on this blog but then I thought no, this subject matter is so important to me, I must get it beyond WeeBanshee. So, I submitted it to a Toronto newspaper.
I’ve been told that I should start doing this on a more (cough) regular basis but I haven’t had the guts. Today, I poured every ounce of blood, heart and soul into this piece. I had no energy left to be cowardly (good thing). And, often when I sob my way through a story or an essay, I’m often surprised by the good results so I figured I had nothing to lose.
It just dawned on me that, although publication would be nice, the subject matter is so much a part of me if the essay is rejected, it might have catastrophic confidence-busting results. If I can write from the heart and have my heart stomped on, then perhaps that is investing too much of myself in the material. Do I hold back? Do I temper my passion? Instead of writing from the gut should I just try to slide by and write from my cold, dispassionate cerebral cortex to avoid being laid low by rejection?
Or, do I learn to manage the rejection – because thinking that it won’t come either way is just delusional. Or do I just let ‘er rip, go for it and let the chips fall where they may?
Frankly, I’m too exhausted to care. The fact is, I let ‘er rip in this piece. I spared nothing and no one, not even myself. We’ll see what happens.
Hot shower. Tea. Bed.