Hello. Not sure who might read this, but it's always polite to start with a greeting. "Hello." Or "good morning" or "Hey, nice legs." (I get that last one ALL the time.)
A little while back, a friend of mine encouraged me to start a blog. She said that I have a "way" with words. And being one to jump on a new idea, I decided to start one. Five months later, I actually began writing it. That's how I've lived much of my life. I decide to do something. Months or years later I start doing it.
I've heard many times in my life that I am a "good" writer, a "really good" writer, a "great writer". When I first heard those words, I was still in elementary school. I heard it many times more through college and into my professional life. But hearing compliments about my writing skills was akin to hearing "Wow, you're great at studying." It was something I was expected to do, had to do, must do to be a great student. Don't misunderstand--I love to write. But any attempts at writing creatively or for myself were difficult, as I was always searching for the "assignment" within it. I wasn't letting myself write for, well, the sake of writing.
Write what? Why? How many words? Who's my audience? How many sources should I cite?
Whatever you want. You decide. Just write.
I always saw writing creatively as an artistic pursuit, another version of your high school drama club or a painting class. The idea of me as an artist....bleaaaahhh!!!! Then I'd have to start wearing mismatched outfits and shaggy hair. I'd have to experience artistic experiences like listening to obscure poetry readings or visiting art galleries for wine and cheese tastings. And ultimately I would move into a loft apartment in the city with curtains drawn over my one window through which daily I can look down upon the people outside and form my disdainful view of the world. What? Isn't that what artists do?
Somewhere along the way, I developed an incredible knack for denying that anything good exists within me. No matter how many kind words I might receive about something I did, I've always found a way to brush them aside and reassure myself that I could've done better, or most certainly somebody else could've done it better. And no matter how many good things have come into my life, somewhere inside was quiet reassurance that such gifts wouldn't last or were more deserved by someone else. So it was with writing.
The eternal pessimistic perfectionist within me...what I refer to as "my inner NO" always found a way to tell me "You're not good enough. Your writing is good, maybe, but that's nothing to live your life around. Pursue something else." And so I did. I pursued every other "else" but the one that gave me the most satisfaction, the greatest fulfillment...the one thing that provided a sense of purpose and made me feel complete. So in a Jerry Maguire sort of way, I stormed through the door of life, confronted my fears, and said to hell with it. I love to write. I don't care where it goes. I'm just going to do it.
No, I didn't make a big speech, shed tears, and utter the words, "You complete me". What sappy drivel. Who the hell would write that? Really, who would actually DO that? No, since there are so few of them out there, I decided to write a blog instead. Spill my guts. Make myself completely vulnerable. Set out with no plan. And just write. I'll decide later if it was worth doing.
What?
Yes, that's it. No...no sappy conclusion. No denouement. (Excuse me, I almost hurt myself on that last word.) No really, I'm just ending it here. I've said all I need to say. Well at least I wrote something! Okay fine!!
(Cue single teardrop rolling down my cheek.)
Writing, I love you. You complete me. And I just...
Shut up. Just shut up. You had me at "hello".
And fade.
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