Well, it’s done. The wind was pushing the door shut and instead of rushing to keep it open, I watched it close, a feeling of both relief and sorrow gripping my heart.
I had a dream, a dream to write my thoughts down on anything and everything in a place of my own and share them with the world. I created a blog, paid for web-hosting, designed my website with a limited understanding of the subject, chose what I thought would be a fun and creative title, and wrote. Sometimes the posts came easily, sometimes I felt like a cracked pitcher in which all the water has slowly dripped free. When I had ideas, I never wanted to hold back—I wanted that raw realness that I aspire to as a writer. I wanted people to know that they aren’t alone. I wanted to inspire and encourage them in whatever way I could. I wanted to disprove the misconception that my life is a series of perfect events in which tears have never been shed or questions about my self-worth have never been asked.
Maybe I wasn’t real enough though, or maybe I was too real. Whatever the case, I crashed on the side of the road of a dream with which I was tired of wrestling. Even with a handful of supportive people encouraging me and reading what I shared, I felt lonely. I felt like no one cared—like the hours I spent writing one piece were in vain—and so I gave up. For someone who wrote about struggles and fighting in spite of those struggles, I was all too quick to quit on something that had meant a lot to me. I reached a point where I didn’t know what to write about and so I decided it was easier to just not write at all. I allowed my vanity, my desire for praise, to choose what my writing is worth. I bought into a lie that no one cares what I write about and so why waste my time?
I am not saying I am anything special, and yet I know I have been given a gift, a gift I feel called to use. If I am mediocre at most things, writing is the one thing I feel the least mediocre at--writing is the one thing I want to devote my life to. The hard part is, I get wrapped up in writer’s block and, even worse, the selfish desire to only write if it means that at least one hundred people will see it and give me shallow accolades. It’s all so silly, I know, and yet that is where I stood. I let my personal blog drop off a cliff of forgotten blogs a few weeks ago, and now I am realizing that I can no longer ignore this thirst to write. Maybe I can make something of a novel I have been burning to write, and maybe I can finally get back into the practice of writing every day even if it’s nothing I decide to share. I am realizing that the praise I once sought is, while an encouragement at times, not the reason I write or want to write. That’s not to say that that struggle will not rear its ugly head again, but recognizing it now, I feel more equipped for that battle. For the first time in a long while, I feel excited about writing again--like I am standing on the precipice of endless possibilities that have the power to change my life.
I recently stumbled on a quote from the poet/writer Charles Bukowski that says, “He asked, ‘What makes a man a writer?’ ‘Well,’ I said, ‘it’s simple. You either get it down on paper, or jump off a bridge.’”
I want to get it down on paper.