Writing is the fix that sends me into frenzy, a whole other world where I exist as any character I so please. and I’ve forsaken my writing many times for other more exciting happenings in my life. Relationships and opportunities have come and gone, only to find me right back with my thin blue pen scribbling angry words of hurt and disappointment at another failed attempt at happiness.

There are times that I’ve sat to write something on paper, and I’ve drawn a blank. Empty spaces of nothingness framed with darkness void of color expression and feeling. I instinctively get angry and walk away upset, thinking maybe I am not a writer. Others tell me that I am good, but I keep thinking where did you guys see that, I feel as though I am missing some stuff. Tell me, where is my stuff? Where is that creative channel that will place me in the brackets of Derek Walcott, Shakespeare and my Maya Angelou; I love my Maya Angelou. Maybe I am not a writer, maybe I just love writing, and there is a distinct difference between the two.

I am — God Almighty — scared to be published. Spoken word poems and my articles and entries on my blog although free and flowing forms of expressions are my comfort zone; the only judgments I face on those mediums are my own. Success in our modern era is judged not by content but by the quantity of your success, how big of a sale can you get for your peddled product. We don’t barter or trade, we measure in dollars and cents, hundreds of thousands, millions even.

I don’t want to put out anything that isn’t good; I want to put out good stuff. And since I have no idea what my ‘good stuff’ is, mainly because I don’t know where it is and what it looks like, I sit in wait looking out the window for the footsteps of the person that will bring me back my stuff. I will wait for the man or woman, or whoever to bring back what they took from me. Or did they really take it from me? Maybe I lost it. Maybe I hid it so no one would find it. Maybe I forgot where I put it. Won’t that be something? I am here yelling and screaming that someone took up my stuff and I need it and can’t find it to use it, when in reality; I likely misplaced the damn thing myself. Or maybe, just another thought, the stuff I had before wasn’t mine, and I gave it back because I couldn’t use it. Or maybe the true owner came like a thief in the night to take back what I took from them, laughing as they tip-toed through my things going through my stuff knowing damn well that I didn’t know what I had or how to use it. I might have assumed it was worth something, and that is why I took it in the first place, but I really didn’t know what the stuff did.

I am in my 30^th year, am I really a writer, or just someone that likes to write? Where is my stuff? Bring me back my stuff, please I beg of you. I need my stuff, I’m drowning without it. Bring me back my stuff. Have you seen my stuff?

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Linisa George is a blogger, writer, poet, playwright and director; an all-round creative soul bursting with energy. Visit her blog ‘Motives and Thoughts’ at www.linisageorge.blogspot.com.