To Have Big Dreams and Goals, and Be Such a Noob

Most of what we do in life begins with a thought, a decision, and then an action. Granted, some things are ruthlessly thrust upon us not allowing any of the above. Those things, I think we all just stumble through, hoping we've got enough inner fortitude to somehow surf those unexpected waves and come out on the other side intact. But do you ever feel like you've made a conscious decision to do something and yet once you begin to act on that decision, it comes equipped with all of the unpredictable stress of those "unexpected waves" sort of things? Why is that? I had the thought, I made the decision, I took the action, and suddenly I feel like I'm not in control. What the hell?

I read more than a handful of blogs, and over the past year, I've never bothered to comment on most of them or make my presence known in any way. That wasn't because I was trying to be mean, or that I didn't care. These bloggers were (and truthfully, still are) so intimidating to me. Some of them are so ridiculously skilled at writing, that I feel altogether blessed and cursed to be reading them. Now, when I make a comment, I'm sure most of them have no clue how difficult and scary it is for me to leave my thoughts there, for those fantastic writers to read, and perhaps judge.

When I was very young, I had a sixth grade teacher named Miss McKinney. She gave us an assignment to write a story, a "novelette," I believe she called it. I can't remember, it was a very very long time ago. I wrote a suspense story called "Suite 800." It was about a haunted hotel. In sixth grade, I remember it being very scary to even write it. But Miss McKinney loved it (or said she did) and encouraged me to continue writing. She told me she believed that I had discovered a previously hidden talent, and that it was very special.

As the years flew by, I continued to write. I wrote poetry that was published. I wrote songs that were not (I used to play guitar and piano). I wrote letters. I wrote journals. I wrote....all the time. By the time I was in college, I had found other skills that I had some inclination toward, and I majored in graphic design. Yeah, this was a strange choice considering that I had always wanted to be a writer. I can't explain that decision. But to make a very long story a tiny bit shorter...writing began to fall by the wayside for me. After college I started a small business doing CD cover and ebook cover designs. I quit writing, for the most part.

There used to be so many things to write about. Honestly, you could have given me any topic or idea, and it would have streamed from my pen (pen, yes, it was a long time ago) into some semi-brilliant and beautiful thing. Now I'm almost half a century old, and really really want to write. Yet, I feel like the part of me that used to write so eloquently, with such passion and resolve, has somehow been crushed under the weight of just living and raising children, being married and working, and just spending so many years not paying attention to life outside of my own isolated bubble of existence.

At the point of tears I sit here typing, longing to find that part of myself again, and yet, she feels so far away, so disconnected from the woman that sits here today. I don't know her any more. She's gotten lost somewhere in the past; a past that was spent doing and being and fulfilling all kinds of other roles.

There are so many blogs in the blogosphere, all floating about, most unread by anyone other than their writer and perhaps a few close friends or family. I know that most people aren't interested in reading what some 45 year old woman did today, or had for breakfast, or even necessarily her life's "revelations." What do I really have to contribute other than half a century of my own personal life and all of its details? I'm not a comedienne, like The Bloggess or Her Bad Mother, who is also ridiculously gifted at one line Tweets that make you spew coffee out of your nose. All I have to give...is me. And I want to be genuinely me. Yet, I don't really know who that is anymore, so how can I share that with someone else? I'm pretty sure that no one wants to read the story of me rediscovering myself either. That just seems like it would be literary public masterbation. I don't think that sounds very appealing either.

So to get back to the point I was trying to make in the first paragraph...I made this decision to blog. I'm blogging, right now, for me. But I'm not going to lie and say that I don't care if anyone reads it. Of course I do. I think that most everyone that has a blog that they work on, wants people to read it, wants comments, wants that feeling of involvement with a community of other writers and readers, and I love to read other peoples' blogs. I just love it. I know I need to comment more often, because I know that those comments are precious to a writer, and I've begun to do that. But in this state of blogging "infancy," I have to say that I feel very lost, very alone, and very hungry to just write, whether those writings are read or not, I can't determine. I just know...I must write.

The wave is cresting behind me...

I hope I can ride it out.

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