Ever since I was a young girl I have loved words. I love learning new ones, writing them down, and just admiring their power. Because they do have power. Immense power. How you speak, whether it is in writing or the spoken word, can determine how others perceive you and respond to you. Socially, your vocabulary can limit you or empower you. It can make all the difference in the level of success you find in all areas of life. Granted, there are exceptions; apparently you can become president without needing to be coherent much less articulate…but I digress.
Words can be used to inform or soothe. They can be used to incite or inspire. Nothing is quite so satisfying as a good book. Nothing can make you feel connected like amazing lyrics. Immense power.
So, my love of words led to a passion for reading and writing. Life led to me abandoning both for a great many years. When my children were little I had very few moments to spare for reading, and writing was limited to pouring out my hopes, fears, and frustrations in a journal. Even that was sporadic at best. As my children grew older and relied on me less and less for daily requirements I began to rediscover my loves. First came the reading and in that I immersed myself in the words of others. I sought out different styles of writing and admired each one for their contrasts…if nothing else. I started to feel the urge intensify to write down my own thoughts and ideas and as time went on that urge only deepened. Then one day I started this blog. I revelled in it. I loved the feeling of just going with the thought process and putting the words down. I rejoiced in editing my work and making it “perfect”. I sought out books and articles about the whole writing process and the English language in general. I discovered that I had forgotten so many grammar rules, learned long ago, and while my spelling is above reproach, I was/am embarrassed by my other mistakes. A simple lack of use is to blame. For a brief period of time I wrote like a fiend. Daily I would compose, if not publish, a blog post. I had an opinion on everything. Soon the followers came and that simultaneously thrilled and terrified me. People liked my writing! Oh lord, I felt pressured to perform. Then one day I just stopped. There were people reading, judging, and expecting. Suddenly my writing wasn’t just for me. I began my withdrawal by only writing and not publishing but then after my iPad crashed and all of my work was deleted I became so disheartened I just stoppped. I still composed articles, stories, plays, movies, and more but only within the confines of my own mind. I wasn’t ready to share any of it. It wasn’t mere hesitation but an absolute refusal.
I told myself I just didn’t have time and yet I knew that was an excuse, one that I shared with anyone who asked me why I had stopped writing. Then one day I realized I missed that feeling. I missed the rush of running with an idea, moulding it, and making it into something I was proud to share. I don’t miss the feeling of writing for the reader though because it isn’t genuine. Some of my posts were simply done to amuse others or appease people who asked me to keep writing. When I reread these pieces I see only a glimmer of myself in there. Mostly I see what other people wanted. I see what made me let go of my love of writing.
So, I’ve had a break…taken a breather…and I’m writing again. Maybe not all of it will be laid out in my blog; in fact I hope most of it won’t. I have other forums I want to explore,other creative avenues I want to follow. I dream of writing a book, starting an online magazine or…
Basically, I want this to be for me. If others enjoy it then that’s a bonus. If no one appreciates my work than that’s a shame but not a deal breaker. I need to find time for me. For my love, my passion, my words.