You know, I spent a good part of my life thinking I would be a writer. I imagined how my name might look on the books and what types of stories I might write. And then, I petered out. Looking back at the past several years, I’m a bit upset with myself for not working at it. I had forgotten how nice it feels to write.
I suppose writers need to grow up a bit. The advice that shines through from every single author is that to be a writer, you really only have to write. And that’s not something I do – so it’s the only thing preventing me from it. Of course, when you’re writing a blog, the last thing people want to read is a meta post about your in ability to find inspiration, as well as riddling the post with commas, so it becomes an albatross.
Life continues onward. I find my limitations mainly to be from secrets I must keep. Real writing, good writing must come from honesty and this is an area I’m not so good at anymore. Parts of my life are hidden since the advent of social media – there are groups of people who can’t know what I’m doing with other groups of people, I’m constantly worried about writing the wrong thing and the wrong person reading it and it biting me in the rear end. Through such constraints, one could argue creativity is born – but I would like to be able to bare my soul more effectively.
Of course, my hidden truths aren’t life-destroying, either. I’m overweight, but my body feels like home at least. There’s no attractions I have to keep secret – I only have life events that I keep hidden, developments that I can’t share. At some point, I can.share aspects.
I lost a friend a few years ago, the one I could share it all with. He left me, hasn’t spoken to me or anyone for quite sometime, so I have no confidant. It’s frustrating. It has never been my impetus to bottle up my emotions – nor do I find much help in writing them out in secret. All that does is cause me to feel worse. There’s no pride to be found in wallowing.
Anyway. I have been writing again. Trying to finish long form pieces started long, long ago, and possible starting new pieces. Would that I could keep up with it this time, but it has been days since pen touched paper. And pen and paper is my best way since it cannot hide in the ether – it’s there on my desk, being ignored. Lovely, lovely.
And I promised myself, deep down, that I would do my blog more. What stops me is the subject of my Blog Name – Shouting into the Wilderness. I’ve opinions, yes, but what good to write them down? It all seems very arrogant. Perhaps I’m suffering from aggrandizement.
That’s enough from me. Happy New Year.