"I Don't Care." (I Already Wrote Two Poems About It)
Notes on the enveloping arms of a blank page
At school, I would write poetry in my maths binder, my focus on the lesson at-hand slipping somewhere between talk of derivatives and exercises on integrals. Whether I was taking these clandestine moments to lament the plague of life as a teenage girl or hyper-fixate on the perfection of the floppy curls on the boy sat in front of me, I was subconsciously developing a deep appreciation for the enveloping arms of a blank page. To this embrace, I addressed my grievances, my obsessions, my yearnings, longings, and pity parties. In response, it simply held them. An indomitable guardian.
As I’ve gotten older, I’ve taken to the page, whether it be my notes app or a journal, less and less. Now, I almost exclusively write when I’m feeling an extreme emotion. In part, I blame this on the increasing busy-ness of an adult existence that doesn’t allow for idle words. In truth, I think it has more to do with the fact that I write, largely, to process whatever is going on in my head. Most of the time, I can work it out on my own or with the lobbying power of friends I’ve looped in for counsel. When neither of these methods work, two things happen. Firstly, I go for a run in the morning. Secondly, immediately after showering, I open up my journal and write. Although I never plan it this way, it is, without fail, what occurs. Running has been a grounding comfort for me since I was about 11, so I find its combination with writing the ultimate cure. My thoughts become less erratic, more articulate, and, overall, more honest.
If writing is truly what so many assert that it is — a way to make sense of the world —then it follows that it is a natural medium to return to when we are in need of an outlet.
Motivation aside, the practice of scribbling down my feelings has retained its cathartic qualities over the years. Learning to sit with my emotions, write them out, and then reread them time and time again has given me an invaluable level of respect for my own lived experiences and responses to them. That might sound awfully self-involved, but the truth is that we’re all master gaslighters and it’s easy to dismiss the ramblings of our often melodramatic, fill-in-the-blank-year-old selves. What’s considerably harder is to reconsider the poems and paragraphs we wrote at the time and maintain that dismissive stance. Rereading my younger self’s words kindles my empathy and appreciation for the human experience. Ok, now I really sound self-involved, but maybe that’s ok. This is my Substack, after all.
I used to wonder if I simply feel too much, (over)think too deeply, linger too long. The jury is still out on that one. What is distinctly less unclear is that the act of writing to yourself is often the bravest yet safest way you can decipher your own feelings.
Learning to be honest with yourself while writing; however, is an entirely different kettle of fish. I, for one, have a tendency to romanticise lived experiences when writing or glamorise past mistakes in order to avoid reliving the same shame or embarrassment I felt whilst, or in the aftermath, of making them.
I’m sure that there are a myriad of tips and tricks you can find online about how to write honestly, but ultimately I think it boils down to forcing yourself to be ok with the fact that, at a moment in time, you weren’t perfect and weren’t proud of something you did. Obviously, shame is just one blocker in the exercise of writing honestly but, for me, it’s been the biggest. I refer to it as an ‘exercise’ because writing honestly is a muscle that grows stronger and sleeker with use. The more familiar you become with the practice, the less effort it will take and the more naturally it will come to you.
I was at a bar recently and bumped into some guys I’d known (in the loosest terms) from university. While chatting to one of them, he asked me — incredibly bluntly, mind you — what my hobbies were. What ensued was a long and, admittedly, drunken discussion of what actually qualifies as a hobby nowadays. For example, can cooking be a hobby for the young person living alone? Or is it more of a fact of enjoying an obligatory task in their day? Similarly, is running a hobby? Or is it a form of exercise enjoyed principally for its physical pay-off? What about vintage shopping? Simply capitalism reimagined?
Exasperated, I blurted “Well, I guess then my only hobby left is writing!” To which he shut up entirely. I kid you not, he actually looked interested for the first time that evening. “Me too…” He confessed. “I always have a notebook on me and like to jot down the odd poem or two.”
Sue me for my misogyny but I was genuinely surprised— I don’t think I’ve really come across any straight men (read: finance bros) who write poetry in their spare time?? Was Taylor onto something when she said Quick, quick // Tell me something awful // Like you are a poet trapped inside the body of a finance guy? Are we, perhaps, in a writi-nnaissace?
Unlikely. But all that to say: I am once again writing poetry in my Notes app, somewhat cohesive musings on my Substack, and confessions in my journal, and I think you should, too.
