On Medusa and Fear

Cixous's "Laugh of the Medusa" reminded me of a conversation that I had with a friend several weeks ago. This talented friend, another Messiah English major, writes insightful poetry without any reservations and has had her work accepted to the Minnemingo Review several times. I, however, have serious emotional issues with creative writing, and in this conversation, I angrily declared that I "hate writing." I think my response must have taken my friend by surprise. (However, she probably has noticed by now that while she manages to maintain a calm demeanor, I have a much more hot-headed, emotional disposition, and I speak my mind.)

Why do I hate creative writing? I used to love it. I used to pour hours of my life into composing poetry and short stories, and I had accumulated a handful of awards by the end of high school. So obviously someone-- at some point in time-- thought my work was worth reading.

I refuse to write because I am angry. My creative self-esteem has plummeted since my sophomore year of college, resulting in my switching my concentration from writing to literature. I have no qualms about writing research papers or critical essays, but I refuse to create. I am, by nature, a perfectionist. I don't like what I create-- I critique every word, every line, every sentence. I see myself reflected in Cixous's work since my debilitating fear of failure stems from failed attempts to gain the approval of male critics. I agree with Cixous in the recognition that certain men have aided in the erosion of my confidence.

My refusal to write is a form of self-protection. If I keep silent, no one can hurt me by hurling painful critiques. I consider my work an extension of myself, the intimate expression of my soul's joys and struggles, and when a critic picks my poem to pieces, I feel as if he has criticized my naked body. Consequently, I have vowed I will never put my creations on public display ever again.

I wipe away my furious tears and stuff my shame back into that forgotten corner in my mind. Cixous would probably tell me that I can't let these men steal my joy and dash my self-esteem into slivers. I would love to completely disregard the past and move forward. She calls for the invention of a new, feminine language, and she tells her female readers to write from their bodies. What does that mean? Part of me fears that I am unable to write "from my body" because, well, sometimes I honestly hate my body.

Perhaps once I accept that my imagination and my body are "fearfully and wonderfully made," I will be able to write again. Then those painful memories will become impotent in light of the authority of my almighty God and His assessment of my worth.