At the Risk of Muddling

It’s 9 pm on a Tuesday, and I’m thinking I’m going to leave this slice for next week. It’s too late now. I open my inbox and see the slices my friends already submitted. I love their writing so much that I tell myself, okay, just read this, at least you can say you did that. They have such a beautiful way of writing. It feels almost effortless. I hate writing. It makes me self-conscious.

In Venezuela, my school was science focused so we didn’t do a lot of creative writing or any thoughtful writing for that matter. Profe Glenda, our Geography teacher, always did though, and I loved those assignments. But then came college applications for the US, along with the SAT and TOEFL. No one ever really asked me to write essays or long narratives. I became terrified of punctuation, probably because I usually speak without it. Who needs a pause to catch your breath anyway?

I suffered through Composition I and II in college. I managed a B-, and that was with my friends reading my essays before I turned them in. Art history exams, funny enough, did not scare me, even though we had to write just as much. Maybe it was because I enjoyed the subject. Maybe because I could add my own perspective. I know I could have done that in composition essays too, but it felt so intimidating that it never really clicked.

Nowadays, most of my writing is artist statements, show applications, and newsletters (starting this month, I promise!!). I second-guess myself a lot. What if it doesn’t sound smart enough? Artsy enough? I have no interest in using big words or explaining grand theories about society and the universe in my art writing. The whole reason I paint is because I struggle to find the words. Lines come easily to me. Movement, intensity, color. That part feels effortless.

“Why can’t people just feel it?” I often ask myself.

Please feel it, so I don’t have to explain it, speak it, or risk muddling all the magic I feel inside.

In the meantime, I’ll keep practicing my writing.