It's Tuesday ... #thoughtfultuesday to be exact, and this is really the first time I am truly "blogging" on this little space on the world wide web.
"The true alchemist do not change lead into gold;
they change the world into words."
- William H. Gass
Want to know a very little known fact about me? Something that I have been thinking about lately?
I have thought, since I was a child, that I was brought into this world to be a writer. Even when I wanted to be a teacher, or a veterinarian, or work in forensics (Thanks, CSI), I knew I needed to write.
I soaked up all the praise my teachers and family gave me for short stories I wrote and illustrated, and as I got older, equally cherished the comments and criticism of anything I wrote, including poems. When I was an angsty teenager, it was usually poetry ... poetry I am sure I would be dreadfully mortified to read now. I won't deny to still being a little proud that one of my silly poems was a finalist in a national poetry contest though. I still remember one of my favorite teachers (ironically, of my most hated subject - Math) close to tears after reading a letter to the editor I wrote in defense of teacher's rights in the local newspaper I sent in, and complimenting my skills ... even in something as simple as an opinion piece.
I really suck at math, so I was thrilled I got a compliment from a math teacher. A first for me, I promise.
The problem is, being a writer is hard. I am not just talking about the normal issues writers have, with writers block, insecurity, and time to dedicate to something that very rarely pays off. My biggest problem, is having sharing that part of myself with the other part of myself. Specifically, the rather severe ADD part of me. My computer and notebook is full of ideas that have come to me randomly or even, in dreams. Character profiles written out. There is no loss of creativity. My biggest problem is concentration.
The hardest thing to do is to sit down, and write.
For the last couple of years, it's been really nagging at me, this thought. To be a writer. Even if it's only for me alone. An outlet. I have always loved novels. Always. I love reading them, I love continuing the story in my head (I had a rather embarrassing, yet popular, Harry Potter fan fiction online when I was thirteen ... ugh), and I love the quiet, relaxed moments I get when my brain manages to shut down every other thought for a few minutes for me to write out a few paragraphs. It gives me some semblance of accomplishment. That I am doing what I was meant to do.
Because these thoughts have been plaguing me more and more as of late, I have decided to give it a whirl. I'm trying to force myself to sit down and commit to the task of writing. It's complicated.
Seriously. You should see me try to clean. I bounce around from task to task, never finishing, because I can't stay on task. It actually hurts my brain to try!
I figure though, if my inner voice will not let this go ... there has to be a reason, right?
That's it for this weeks journal entry. Holy shit, that was painful. It's so much easier to blog about your kids, than something so personal. Perhaps that is the biggest problem. Writing anything is letting the world see a part of yourself. It's terrifying. Maybe that is what holds me back. Self-doubt.
Till next week, book nerds,