When I write…

When I write
I come to the empty page with respect and a lurking sense of dread that for some reason I will not be able to create or convey what my mind and heart want to say anymore

When I write it’s never clear enough, or powerful enough, or clever enough, or enough My writing is an obsession that pulls at my mind day and night, sending me into fits of verbal entanglements and run on sentences… still running

When I write, and then read my work, I wonder if anyone else really feels my writing, or are they just politely listening and waiting for their turn to read their own words.
Writing is air and I breath in deep gulps and relish in the freedom of it and the ability to create or destroy a world that has never been seen before or experienced a look inside my writing shows the turmoil and laughter of my soul my writing is a shadow of my heart in print and on display for the world to see

I am not famous but when I read my writing sometimes, I think perhaps someday, far down the road, that maybe my writing is not so bad and it could possibly rise out of the slush pile and be printed and actually become…

Thoughts like that make my simple head spin and make me dread becoming a known author because part of what makes my writing worth reading is my anonymity and my loneliness

I’m not ashamed in the slightest to admit I write for money so that perhaps one day I won’t have to tell my children, no, all the time, and my wife can have the things she deserves but is too selfless to ask for Not to be rich, but comfortable enough to take a breath and enjoy life without facing the everyday challenges of borderline poverty
I look forward to the day were I can take time to write and not always feel like I’m running out of time to write and I can carefully, and thoughtfully weigh each word for substance and impact The dream to wake and write and write some more and not have to go anywhere or do anything but write and write well is what keeps me writing into the deep watches of the night, and up again at four to write some more

This heavenly gift, this unnerving fluke a delightfully consuming obsession to write and be a writer of worth is what I aspire to attain with my pen and my squirrely mind, and the ever elusive imagination cloud that only brings its silver spun rain every now and again

I write to hold back my minds decay and to breathe and to exist
My words come from my soul’s well, partly dark and lined with sorrow and sparkling memories swirling in crystal water

Jagged and edged, my words bite and prick and know and whisper into your inner thoughts, flitting about and gone, leaving a stain of comprehension
Would that I could write something that would change the world and wake up the masses

my writing is a secret lover that’s not always in the mood and often times an ass one evening we dance and create the next evening we are shy strangers awkwardly trying to get to know each other once again

What to write, who to trust, what to say, and who do I want the world of readers to think that I am

My writing my words, my words, my heart in my words, and into your mind, my writng goes on and grows and evolves and becomes… when I write.

R.B Tetro

This piece was recently published in the Roane County Reader

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3 thoughts on “When I write…

  1. I very much enjoyed this piece. It’s fantastic to hear that it has been published. Your choice of words provokes the reader connect with the passion that you hold personally toward writing as an artistic outlet. It feels so real to me as a writer that I completely comprehend your desire and need to get the words written. In particular I enjoyed it when you said, “Writing is air and I breath in deep gulps and relish in the freedom of it and the ability to create or destroy a world that has never been seen before.” It gave me an inside peek of the natural struggle that writers endure to create a masterpiece. And this is a plight I know very well. It gives readers and writers a greater understanding as to who you are as an individual and professional.

    Like

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