Could I allow myself to write fiction?

Over the years, I have made so many promises on the blog. I have waxed optimistically about how I am a changed person, how I will be a prolific writer, a writer who will write and not think about how difficult it is to write. I have cried bitterly in words about how I am suffering a creative block and how it is just a phase. I have repented on my knees for the monster-police in my brain that stops me from writing.

If someone did this to me outside of me, I’d shoo them away. The truth is I am my own bad boyfriend. I don’t lie to myself; all I am is evasive. I will write the poetic apology but not the sincere love letter. Isn’t it just easier to beat yourself up than keep promises?

Recently I read that it is self-care to keep promises to yourself. This has been a mean realization because the only person I can postpone is me. My life takes meaning only if I live for others. For myself, I wouldn’t (couldn’t) even get up from the bed. I would be okay if it all ended for me. I care two hoots. It is a mix of contentment for what has been and a resignation bcz I am tired despite everything.

The only thing I want, if I must continue to exist infinitely, is to not be a doomed worker. So, all I do is rebel against bad workplaces or create my good working conditions in the little agency that I do have.

What else can I want for myself? Maybe some silliness and play. Things I always indulged in to amuse myself. So even if it lacks skill, I treasure it because I made it! Like we did as kids! So experimentative with genre and subject, and blinded with happy pride!

Guess what I really want to say is that I am going to attempt writing with the many online writers raring to take on that November project.

I am still afraid of writing a story. Lest, I psychoanalyse myself. Lest, all the feelings I want to dust off come out. Lest, I unravel. Confessing the truth is easier than fictionalising it. How. Why. What. I am not sure what is at play here. I wonder how my brain can muster more shame for writing fictional semi-autobiographical work compared to writing confessional angsty trash.

Anyway, maybe I will be brave enough to attempt it, or sober enough to write here regularly for a month, so that I have something playful I did despite how angsty it seems for a 28 year old to be writing like this—

November found me sad. What can I say?
tame shewolf.

When I am pinned and wriggling on the wall,
Then how should I begin 
To spit out all the butt-ends of my days and ways?

~”The Lovesong of J Alfred Prufrock”, T S Eliot