My therapist wants me to do more personal writing. Anything that makes the unconscious conscious. Stirring your insides to see what surfaces. Then to look at that and have revelations, possibly connect some dots. But also the process of stirring the internal pot is a good thing. “Just moving shit around” is processing, — he says. For many this sounds terrifying, or like a complete waste of time. I told him I write books for a living. I don’t have the fucking time for personal writing. I didn’t say fucking but he’s East Coast. He doesn’t give a fuck.
When I get paid to write, I’m editing — constantly. Words — a thousand jig saw pieces laid out on the table you’re trying to fit together for an image you can show your friends and hang on a wall. Personal writing is part vomit, part splatting paint, and part dancing in the dark. That reminds me to remind you of one of the sexiest song lyrics from Bruce Springsteen, “Don’t worry, we’ll find a way.” It should be a banner hung over every coach in couples therapy rooms. Anyway, since I post everything, I dance in the light. I’ve trained myself to be comfortable there. At first it was ego. Watch me. Now it’s where I feel flow — the public has become my safe tree and accountability partner.
Knowing I’m being watched makes this process pure, and I get a high doing it. I imagine it’s what flashers feel. Speaking of highs, I was…
