Words! How glorious they fall on the page. Fast or slow, deep or shallow, they drip from my fingers like misty drizzle or hammer from my heart in torrents. However they choose to come, I do my best to accept and relate them without prejudice.
And therein, Dear Reader, lies the rub. How I wish it were one of those warm, tingly, exciting rubs on delicate parts that leave us breathless and singing inside—but it’s not.
The rub of which I speak is self-censorship, the ‘it’s not good enough’ rub, or the ‘this will never sell’ rub, or worst and most crippling of all, the ‘what would Mummy and Daddy think?’ rub, which is really not so much a rub as a rub out of confidence and inspiration in one fell, soul-blackening, creativity-killing swoop.
Odd that. I loved my parents, and I know that they loved me.
Pardon me while I indulge in a warm, fuzzy memory…
But, oh gods, I craved their approval. So I wrote what they liked, or more accurately, what I felt they felt I should write.
I even won prizes—small things, but still, a bit of kudos here, some cash there, a week-long writer’s retreat even. My parents were proud—most of my stories were funny, descriptive, they contained cool robots, talking animals, quests, morals, and the occasional unemotional personal interaction.
But there was a problem. The writing that I felt met with approval was bland, boring, nothing, while the writing that actually felt like the inkling of the beginning of me was met with raised eyebrows. And if you don’t already know it, I’ll tell you now that eyebrows raised just so fillet your soul.
It’s only recently, twenty years after her death and six years after his, that I’ve begun the process of overcoming the crippling self-censorship caused by my interpretation of my parents’ feelings about my writing—by extension about who I was.
That’s a lot of wasted years. Especially when it’s possible I was completely wrong.
Pardon me while I huff in frustration.
However, frustration over might-have-beens is as pointless as self-censorship, causing time and opportunities to fly past with the silvery swish of swallows’ wings. Both are indulgences I can no longer support.
Life is an urgent affair. Writing freely with honesty is imperative. Catharsis, joy, indulgence I must afford, writing lends coherence to my thoughts on days when the spoken word is a trial. I still love my parents and I’m grateful for all the good they did me, but these days I make a conscious effort to rub my delicate parts until they tingle and sing.
Pardon me while I make time to write some Words!
A passionate romantic and obsessive equestrian, Francisco Cordoba lives with his wife, teenage son, four cats, two dogs, horse, ducks and chickens. He freely admits to loving them all, although he refuses to allow more than three bodies to share his bed at any one time. His six-book, paranormally romantic, mysteriously suspenseful, thrillingly adventurous, and possibly fictional debut series, The Horsemen of Golegã will be self-published soon.