I went to see a psychic a few years ago. One of the first things she said to me was, "You're a writer." Nope, I'm a stay-at-home-mom, at the moment. Before that, I worked in finance. The best writing I did there were some scorching emails to people who weren't performing their jobs. No time for that reflective nonsense.
When I was young (as under 21 young) I wrote prodigiously. This was mainly due to the fact that I was a miserable teenager. Except for some poetry, the vast majority of these works have been thankfully destroyed. Several years ago my mom gave me a box of stuff from my youth that contained some journals I had written. The depth of their sadness horrified me. I couldn't get rid of them fast enough.
For the most part these days, my life is angst free which has lead me to think I have nothing to write about, but maybe that's not true. I love writing. I dreamt of living in a converted barn outside a small New England town and churning out pages and pages for my literary fans. What I hadn't considered though, is the fact that it is downright intimidating to think about real people reading what you wrote. I am petrified beyond belief. So, I'm going to do it anyway.
I'm proud of you. The best part of sharing your writing (or paintings, photographs, whatevers) is when somebody else says, "me too." My story mirrors yours in many ways. Oh the tortured drawings I came up with in high school!
ReplyDeleteLet's be brave together. xoxo