Yesterday, two things happened: I said hello again to E2, and I wrote something.
When I signed onto E2 yesterday, my intent was to do as I usually do: read from the sidelines (I hadn't authored a write-up since 06 - I really don't write as much as I should, but more on that shortly). When I signed in, I noticed that I've now been a member of E2 for more than 5 years, and here's what keeps me coming around: this place has soul. The things I read here remind me that under all the decoration, fabric, skin, and defensiveness, we all have big, raw beating hearts and souls that compel us to yearn, love, and forever be reaching. When the press of the city fails me, E2 reminds me what is it to be human, and that's no small task given that lately, I find myself walking around, looking at people, and asking myself, can we really be the same species? To me, the heart and soul of this place are people's willingness to give of themselves, to outpour words that build bridges between us. I immersed myself gratefully, but soon a niggling frustration returned: I can't vote on this stuff.
Sad but true, 5 years as an E2 member and I still, somehow, have not hit level 2. So, love as I have the hundreds of graceful, bold, provocative, nodes I've read, I've been frustrated by the fact that there is no way for me to throw my support behind a piece of writing, regardless how much it uplifts me or opens my eyes. When I ran up against this yesterday, I said to myself, as I've done countless times before, I've got to get it together and get the next level. Recalling recently reading of changes to the level system, I went for a virtual wander to see what the current benchmark for vote-earning was. What I found: the XP Recalculator. Intrigued, I punched the little button to see what effect recalculation would have on me. My jaw hit the floor (well actually, my desk to be exact, but it's a figure of speech, right?). I saw the 400 odd XP my 16 WUs had earned jump to 1100 some. What's more, I saw that under the new system, I get to vote!
I've rarely had the experience of such immediate wish fulfillment, and was filled with a warm rush of E2 appreciation. It seems that that was what it took. See, unlike many of the brilliant writers around here, I'm not usually one of those "give generously of the self" type of writers. I have, er, issues with writing. One thing adds to another, keeping my writing safely on blank pages, away from the prying eyes of people who might wonder why, might look at me differently, might tell me I'm a hack. I have bona fide problems that keep my pen capped. For one, I can't do plot. Plot requires a problem. Problems have solutions. Watching someone suffer through a problem is painful, so why subject people to that? The result of writing fiction with that kind of an attitude, by the way, is not something you would want to subject yourself to voluntarily. It isn't plausible. And it's not just fiction either. In fact, I always preferred to write poetry, but that pursuit is fraught with its own difficulties.
I have been writing various kinds of poetry for as long as I can remember, since I learned to read at 4, but 22 years of practice hasn't quite cut it. I just don't think my poetry works, and I even think I know why. I think it's related to a childhood ended too soon, a super independent streak I developed when I was young: I have a really hard time showing weakness or pain. I'm not especially comfortable with sympathy or pity, so maybe that factors in too. And I've been working on getting better about it, really working. But my notebook gives shitty feedback. I have friends who are writers, but they have this habit of telling me I'm beautiful instead of telling me what they think of my writing, which I'm pretty sure is a bad sign. My mother, also a writer, tries, tells me my writing "lacks specifics" but it's harder than it looks, convincing oneself to twist the blade, milk the pain for art. Sadly, I need to write. Maybe it's some sort of condition, I don't know, but writing keeps me, well, sane.
This is how the pieces all come together then, coincidence, frustration, good timing. I needed to write, and more than that, I needed somewhere to write. The topic of my father had been burning a hole in my notebook for weeks, wailing to be let out. And here I was, stewed in prose after a solid afternoon of reading and voting, with so many more XP that I said screw it, and wrote what I wanted to. And then the magic started. I got messages. Votes. Feedback. I felt words bubbling up through the cracks, and went out on a limb. Maybe this winter, to escape my usual seasonal bout of becoming unfit for human company, I'll write my way through it. Buoyed by Dreamvirus's support, I signed up for the Iron Noder Challenge. It's about time I did some giving back around here. Will I be able to write 30 WUs in 30 days? My track record of 16 over 5 years says not bloody likely, but I'm trying a fresh page here. It's high time.