Self-doubt

Thank you for being so kind about my comments on my own lack of creativity. 
I have always doubted myself. Even more so since Georgina died. 
Not just my creativity. My body. My femininity. My moral worth. 
Everything.
Whether it was down to hair dye, or accidental caffeine consumption, or because 'I lied when I was seventeen', I was sure it was me.
I remember sobbing to my mum that she had died because I was rotten inside. My guts were rotting and that had poisoned her and killed her.
I do realise that particular theory doesn't make any sense.
It's one of many that I've concocted over the last nineteen months. I could write them all down but it would be soul destroying to do and incredibly boring to read. I've thought of many, many plot lines which would explain precisely how I managed to murder Georgina.

I worry about my words so much because I think that, if they are badly written, it will reflect upon Georgina. Because I'm all she's got. 
I am, most likely, the only person who will ever write about her. 
And I worry that somehow, due to my own lack of talent or flair, I will end up slighting her, detracting from her.

I feel that I want to make my writing better because Georgina is my muse. The only muse I've ever had. 
Georgina is the only person I've ever met that made me attempt to write anything, to make this clumsy old mother bird take wing on a flight of fancy. Someone that made this spreadsheet bound numbers girl try her hand at something different. Because, in this instance, numbers simply weren't going to cut it. 

I suspect that, once this blog is over and disappears, I will never write anything again. Not like this. 

Obviously I will write e-mails and technical documents and fa.cebook status updates and so on. 
But not this type of extended love letter / biography / whine / self examination / self pity / drivel ? 
Certainly nothing ever this darn long. Never again. I wouldn't have the patience.

If I could write how I truly feel about her, I would have no need for doubt. 

This strange world of blogs is of full of creative and (in my opinion) brilliant writers. I frequently read posts that make my heart pound and my eyes fill up, that make me laugh, or sigh, or nod.

Sometimes I feel as though my Georgina is poorly represented as I hover on the outskirts trying to conjure up something that hasn't been said a hundred times before and a thousand times better. But I hope that she hears the underlying rhythm to all of this, those words that underpin all of this and all of me, all of my life that 'this is about Georgina.' My Georgina. As I hunch over my keyboard up here, as I drive in my car, as I sing to her sister. Georgina. 
You are there in the midst of it. 
Or a thought of you. 
You, or your ghost. 
You, or something very like.
I hope.

It has all been said before, better than I can say it. 

Women (and men) have been saying this, all of this and more, since before the invention of language. 

I am just another in a long, long line of weeping women. 

Georgina is just another in a long, long line of dead children. A child who died at three days old. As children have always done and will continue to do so until the end of time no doubt.

There is no special nuance to my grief, it does not follow a new and peculiar trajectory, nothing exceptional, nothing to see here.

Except . . .

Except that it is for her.


And here's a little song from a singer who sings a teensy bit how I write (flattering myself wildly). He'll always use twenty words when one would have been sufficient. I guess he's not that great a singer. Technically speaking. Kind of mumbly and he has to sing quite fast to fit all those words in. 
But I still like him. A lot. Because he can write things like this. That 'trying not to think' thing. Yup.
And I may mumble. But I mumble about Georgina and that will do for me. I don't need to doubt myself so much.

Broken broken broken heart
When will you just go away
You just hurt hurt hurt inside of me
Every minute of the night and day

And all I do is try try not to think
Not to think of anything at all
If I can keep myself from thinking for the rest of my life
Maybe I'll survive this fall