The Unwritable


There’s this story I’ve been trying to tell, to write. I’ve made several attempts at it, attacking it from different angles, but somehow it stays out of my reach. And I think I know why.

There’s been a certain level of frustration building inside of me about the status of women today, in 2016. While we’ve made strides in certain fields, it feels like advancements in many places are eroding, if not being ripped away, and I don’t know what to do about it except for this frustration that’s gathering speed. Women barely managed to be recognized as equals in Western societies and already the discourse is back to us needing to hide, to not show traits that are too feminine; actually to not show ourselves too much, to literally cover ourselves.

And then there’s this story which, no matter how I try to shape it, wants to come out submissive, accepting of the inevitable, and I’m raging against it by stopping a few paragraphs in, not liking its voice, its tone, pushing it aside, and yet the story remains in my head because it still wants to be told. The trouble is I don’t know if I can do it. I’m not a great writer (maybe I’ll never be), I’m still a work-in-progress, I haven’t really found my voice yet (and maybe I never will). I want to try to tell this story, but I don’t know if I can do it justice by writing it the way it wants to be written. I also feel half-crazy for talking about a story as though it has a will of its own, but this one does.

So I’m left with this frustration, this anger, and a story that’s just not being written.