The Judge

Recently I had a conversation with a friend of mine who is also a writer. We were discussing journaling and our many good intentions to do so. My good intentions have landed me two shelves full of beautiful and inspiring notebooks that have one to two journal entries in them and about ten pages of notes, lists and various works of poetry. The rest of the pages are blank. I can never bring myself to throw them out because of those two entries and the random poetic pieces but also because there are many blank pages left to be filled. I also cannot seem to resist buying new ones with the promise that "this time" I will journal. It seems I am addicted to notebooks and furthermore...blank pages. More on that later.
My friend apparently has the same problem. As we were comparing notes on our countless quarter full journals and what to do with them, I suddenly was inspired to blurt out a truth about myself as a writer. One that I have kept to myself for my whole life, out of a sense of shame for my own vanity and delusional thinking I suppose. The revelation was that I always write anything...and I mean anything...(we are talking scraps of ideas here) as if someone else were reading it or was going to read it. Now...this may at first sound like a wise thing. For why else write if no one is going to read it? Alas, no. This is a really really  horrible way to create. Basically if you feel that someone is always watching or criticizing or judging your work, you are probably not only going to do poor work but it will also be entirely inauthentic.
The few pieces I consider to be excellent or my best work are the ones I was compelled to write in an electric moment of inspiration and abandon. If someone is always watching over your shoulder you are going to be less inclined to be honest and vulnerable and well...imperfect. The whole point of journaling is to be authentic and real and imperfect. Now this also translates to poetry. I suppose that my poetry is basically my own way of journaling. It is the language I speak...the record of my life...the glass I see through and the most authentic translation of my soul. This perceived judge in my head has been putting undue pressure on my process as a writer. Actually I believe that judge/ or the idea that someone is always watching, or looking or examining has caused me an unbelievable amount of stress in every area of life. In order to create as an artist effectively you must first start at an imperfect...rough and raw place. It seems silly to me that even in my most private moments I can feel silly or critical of whatever it is I am doing or creating... I have fought through this my entire life. My friend heard this...understood it and connected to it. She said that she has done the same thing. This woman whose writing I both admire and aspire to!
In that moment. I felt liberated and understood. I had done what I have struggled so hard to do by telling this truth about myself, I had validated another person in the process and by naming the block I have been able to recognize it when it happens, confront it and move past it. A revelation indeed.
As for the stacks of notebooks? I have kept them all this time not knowing what to do with them. It seemed to make more sense to buy a new one for a fresh start. That was how I did things most of my life, but these days I am immersed in process and imperfection and  learning to build on stops and starts. So today I wrote a few lines in a lovely old notebook. The judge in my head would have liked a fresh book with blank promise but I think I prefer a much loved, messy, inconsistent window into my psyche. Poetry is my ongoing journal and of course the occasional list.

A.L. 3/15/2011