Why do I write?
Or more to the point, why don’t I write?
What does writing do for me, to me, about me that stops me from putting pen to page – or fingers to keyboard or anything to anything?
I made someone very angry with a post once, and so I stopped posting. I’d failed to remind my readers that this blog is full of truths and half-truths and dreams and my opinions about how things are or were or might have been. I’d failed to consider my readership. I’d assumed no one was watching.
So I stopped writing.
So I stopped learning.
So here’s the reminder, the caveat, the warning: this may all just be a bunch of hogwash. You can ask me whether it’s true, and I might say yes or no, but the fact of the matter is that I haven’t a clue as to what’s real and what’s not, and frankly, neither do you. We only know what we perceived and then actually noticed and then interpreted and then believed.
I have harbored horrible, awful fears about someone I love dearly. I mostly worry because I don’t see that person as much as I’d like and I don’t know what’s happening in the in-between times. I wrote about them at a gathering of reluctant writers on Saturday. I wrote and wrote and when I was asked to share, I couldn’t read it out loud for weeping. Someone else read it and I was terrified at my own words. I’d kept the fears under the surface, not daring to examine them. Hearing them spoken out loud into the room gave me strength to confront them. Sunday I did so. I took them out and turned them over and scratched their surfaces and sniffed them and even licked them a little to see if they were salty, and they weren’t. They were just dust.
Writing about them helped them go away.
So while it can be frightening to go inside my own head to see what’s lurking about, it’s also enlightening. I understand why I haven’t done it, and I understand better why I need to.