An Allegory of the Writing Experience
Have you ever been asked to just write?
Have you ever been told to literally just sit there and write anything you want, about anything you want, for a blog which may very well be your parting ‘words of wisdom’ for all those who may read it next?
Such is the dilemma I am faced with, the struggle remaining even after reading through the blogs of Busybird’s work experience and internship predecessors, listening to the same 80s music that graces (read: haunts) all who walk through Busybird’s welcoming, seemingly always open doors.
I sit here now contemplating these past few days, the daily, insistent offers of tea and biscuits, Oscar – the Labrador ‘moral manager’ as dubbed by Kev – greeting you at the door every morning, and the constant music in the background that brings with it the same ‘Who sings this song?’ question from Les I can never answer. Not to mention the daily rotation of interns, and with them, the different personalities you meet.
The more I read, I find that through these observations, I face both a shared struggle, as well as a communitive experience made all the more meaningful knowing that everyone who walks through these doors leaves something behind and takes with them something else when they leave.
When I leave today, it might be the last time I ever see this place, or even these people (and dog), or maybe a few years down the line I’ll come back seeking an internship and I’ll stare blankly at this screen yet again.
In the future I might question if this, publishing industry business is the right path for me, or deign to abandon it entirely, though, either way I’m sure I will still think that I’ve made a worthwhile decision.
Being here at Busybird, I’ve learnt a lot, and even if I hadn’t, I would say that I’ve taken something away from being here.
And I hope that whoever comes here and reads this next will too.
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Every time I’m fixed on the question of what to write, I ask, Well, what have I written?
And I go from there.
I find it hard to write for me.
I’m the type of person who collects stickers and never uses them or hoards scrap bits of paper waiting for just the right moment, and I would say that pretty much explains the kind of person I am, even if I try not to be.
Often when I write, it’s for school, and if not, it’s for a random writing competition, or some lyrical poetry I’ve made on a whim, stuck in my emotions – things I can’t exactly say I’ve done for myself, even if in the end, they benefit me.
I’ll feel lost sometimes, and put my pen on the paper, and let the ink flow where it needs to, but then you stop yourself from going too far, from cutting too deep – like that reflex that keeps you from biting your fingers off with your teeth.
It’s the kind of disconnect where the words you’re looking at are yours, but don’t feel like it, and are an ‘only scratch the surface’ kind of deep. Like you already know the truth, you just don’t want to admit it to yourself.
Because your scared of what that reality might bring.
Writing thoughts in physical form is hard, especially when you’re constantly thinking, How much of myself do I want to give away?
Because every word is a part of you.
With every conversation, and every aspect of your life, you are constantly faced with the choice of speaking your mind and risking it all, or holding it back and never being heard, like you’ve stuck a dam in your throat, holding back the accumulation of all the words you never said, topics you’ve never touched before and all the opinions you’ve never voiced.
I often find myself hoarding words like they’ll suddenly run out if I say too much, like those stickers I can never bring myself to just put down and place. So, with no small amount of made-up, irrational, fear, or selfish arrogance that probably amounts to fear all the same, I am stuck waiting for the right moment rather than living in it.
You only live once.
So why am I so afraid to live it?
It’s the question that plagues me at night when replaying scenarios over in my head, disjointedly wondering What could I have done differently? But in the end, nothing changes, and I am right where I’ve always been.
At the beginning.
So, maybe, I could ask myself, not, What could I have done? but instead, What can I do now?
And move forward.
Even if I have to start, right at the beginning again.
Thank you, Les, and Kev (and Oscar!) for everything you’ve done for me!
Sam M.
Work Experience