Let’s face it. I sit here because I feel like writing will save me somehow. My whole life I have thought about writing. Enjoyed writing. Used it as a way to release stress, to remember poignant moments in my life. I’ve used it to help me understand things that are happening or things that have happened. But now I come to a point where I am faced with the notion that writing actually will not save me. That all this time I have just used the idea of writing as just that: merely an idea; something to keep ahead of me. Something to somehow make my lack of success or fulfillment with writing still changeable but with time and determination and a just-do-it attitude.
Years have passed. I have a husband and four children. No longer do I have my own identity. Will I ever have one again? Will I live through my children? Worry about my children? Fret over my children? Still forcing that writing goal farther away from me? Why? Fear? Exhaustion? Fear? Laziness? Fear?
I remember when I used to write and the joy I felt was immense. Stories that affected me from my personal life. I would be so proud. Want to show people. Read them. Publish them. What happened? Am I afraid of that feeling? I think I am. But why? Am I afraid it will consume me? Am I afraid to commit to something as profound or as big as this? And what if I fail? But what is fail? To whom am I a failure? Once I can get the notion of writing being some sort of salvation or, more importantly, some way to prove to the world that they are wrong: Look What I Can Do! Once I can just write the way I used too. Just write for me. Maybe then I can be free of the guilt and the failure I feel when I don’t write. Because, after all, these are the reasons I don’t write. Do you see?
uppsalaanna 