On writing like a motherfucker

OK, fine, I did it. NaBloPoMo.

I don't know why, exactly, but for some reason it was harder this second time around. More frustrating, more challenging.

In some ways, too, it was more rewarding.

This was at least in part due to the nature of the month itself. November started with a bang. First the election and then a trip to Texas to visit my biological mother and, also, my aunt and my grandmother. There were, other things, too. Old stories, non-rants and fresh pains at the world's injustices. I feel like I ended the month a different person than when I started it. I imagine that's true for most months--most days and hours, really--it's just that this time I noticed it all the more.

This gave me plenty to write about which, in turn often meant that I found myself trying to censor some thoughts and feelings, to keep them private.

And, often when I felt that coming on--that need to censor, to keep things hidden--I tried to push through. I tried to write honestly, I tried to write the truth, I tried to write like a motherfucker, instead. Because, otherwise, what's the point?

I don't know how successful I was with any of that. Certainly I failed, miserably, at posting my stuff to BlogHer as one is supposed to during this challenge. And I'm still catching up on reading other blogs--something I do want to do for equal parts inspiration and perspective.

The writing challenge proved one certain thing: I'm a million miles away from being a really good writer, This isn't a false plea for praise. I know I'm a good writer. But i'm not a really good writer, much less a great one.

But I'm trying. Everyday, I'm trying.

*The above photo is, like the phrase, borrowed from Cheryl Strayed and The Rumpus.