I am currently taking a class called Yoga for Writers and the teacher, Deborah “Zenha” Adams has challenged us to write a Dear Jane/John letter to ourselves from the writer within about why we have abandoned our craft (for those of us who haven’t written much in a while)…and this is my attempt. We were to be honest and simply lay it all out there…
We have come to an impasse, you and I, as I no longer have faith in you to pen my words on the page. You have bargained and avoided. You have been complacent and angry. You have suffered long in matters that I have had no ability to assist you in, for you haven’t allowed me to help.
I have been there with you, in you, since you were a child, always the one you turned to in loneliness or confusion, always the one you allowed to revel in your joys and successes. I am your ultimate confidante and you have abandoned me for matters of livelihood and motherhood and relationships, apathy, and of all things, living.
You know I have knocked at the door of your soul when it has been battered, called to you in 2 a.m. whispers and you simply rolled over and went back to sleep. I am the one who feeds the hunger of the urgent beast to create…hell, I am the hunger and the beast. I am the torture and the salvation. I am the voice that must be heard, whether anyone understands.
You feel the winding paths of prose coursing thru you…I know you still do. You still hear poetry in crowded conversations and city traffic.
I am your respite and I am still here. I am still within the confines of your mind, in the marrow of your bones. I sit with you at dinner and feel you quiver with every orgasm. I am still here, waiting for you.
I know you drift from time to time. I know you take other lovers in the form of activity and laziness and apathy. But I will not let you go, for we have more words to write, more stories to tell and for the love of God, all that fucking poetry to spill.