September 18, 2013
It's been quite a while since I've posted anything about writing, and very little about reading for that matter. I'd like to say the reason for the former is because I've been incredibly busy (which I have) but that's an empty excuse. The truth is I've been afraid. If you remember my Moving On post I wrote, then you know that my goal at that time was to take the bull by the horns and really focus on this area of my life. As I was looking up this post, I realized that I wrote it more than a year and a half ago. That was a real eye-opener.
Like everything I seem to do, I did take the bull by the horns. I immersed myself in self-study, wrote every day, noted every topic, idea, word, phrase, sentence, and feeling I would use in my prose. And then I freaked out. Literally. I couldn't pick up a book or notebook without sending shock waves through my system. I was losing sleep and my heart started to race. Reading for enjoyment went out the window because now I was studying every author's style instead of enjoying the story. Pen and paper—some of my favorite things—became the enemy. I even bought a beautiful refillable leather journal that would become my bible and then felt enormous guilt over the cost. I cast it aside.
I'd been contemplating writing a post about this very subject for some time now, but set that idea aside as well. My girls participate in this Facebook game called, "Truth is...". Friends tell that person how they feel about them in a positive and endearing way and I must say, some of what I'd read really had me thinking. When did I lose my nerve to be so open and honest?
I knew that anything that I wrote would not become a best-seller. I had no illusions of grandeur. All I wanted to do was complete a few projects just for the sake of accomplishment. I wanted to continue blogging about life and family and the usual design subjects. And I wanted to see my name in print every now and again just like I had been doing the last ten years. So what was all of this fuss about?
Over the summer, I finally picked up my journal after months of neglect, but it's been sitting in my room ever since I returned unopened. I get my writing fix through my safe, easy-to-write blog posts. I told myself at least it was something. I hadn't completely gone over the edge and buried writing forever. It was a start.
So why am I confessing all of this now? I'm throwing this out to the universe to see where it lands. My sister-in-law took a leap of faith this past summer and up and quit her job and moved out of the city. She'd been in a rut she thought she could never get out of and it was eating her alive. She needed change, a big change, and she was brave enough to walk through that door and never look back. I envy that. I use to be like that. No, I am like that, I just lost my way for a time.
I'm reading again, albeit not nearly as much as I used to. I'm writing again, but in fits and starts. I am clearly not the same person who wrote that post a year and a half ago. Big changes have occurred in my life over the last year and a half—some of them negative and some of them positive. Ironically, as it usually happens, the positive aspects were born from the negative. I got healthy—physically and mentally. It's been a process and it's not over yet. But I can finally see over to the other side.
Image via literaryinklings.com