I used to write, all the time, about whatever sundry topic happened to flit into my brain.
As an adult, though, I feel… shy? Is that the right word? Hesitant, perhaps?
Randomly blogging about my life feels self-aggrandizing at best and totally narcissistic at worst. However, I met my very best friend in the whole wide world because of a random connection on a cat forum where we happened to share our personal blogs with each other.
Everyone, meet Steph from the day we first met in person! We’ve been the best of online friends for nearly two decades–I literally shrieked with joy when I met her here for the first time, eight years after first connecting!
I suppose that whether we become influencers and speak to many, connect with the souls who uniquely matter to each of us individually, or simply put words to metaphorical paper, I’d say it’s worth it.
However, there is a very strong voice in the back of my head that whispers, “You have nothing of value to say.” I routinely ask myself before I write if something is true, helpful, inspiring, kind, and/or necessary? I always trip up on the “necessary” part.
At some point in my life, some part of me decided that all writing needed to serve a purpose. I couldn’t compose for the simple joy of composing; I needed to work towards something, have a profound insight on the world, a “finished” final draft of sorts, something meaty, something with merit, an idea I could sell or that would impact the world.
But… I just enjoy writing. About everything. Always have.
So, I’ve decided to embrace the idea that not every act of creation must also be for consumption.
I also hesitate because then there’s the fact that certain chapters of my life were just plain… plain… in their boring rigidity, while other chapters were decidedly ugly.
Those chapters take a lot more courage to write about.
Anne Lamott claims:
There is a lot I could write about divorce, happily-never-ever to happily-ever-after, and my various (and generally unwise) forays into rather unconventional lifestyles. Out of consideration for the other characters involved, I stay silent on a great many things. I do believe, however, that our authentic stories can be other people’s survival guides.
There is also the fact that I am not exactly blameless in the story of my life; I am most certainly the author of the vast majority of it, a heroine of my own design and a villainess where I guest-starred in the lives of a few others.
I’ve made many what we’ll call, ah, interesting choices in my life; each one was carefully weighed, carefully measured, carefully considered, and carefully prepped for all the ways I expected things to go wrong–to my utter shock, however, things went surprisingly right.
I have no regrets and would not call a single big life choice I’ve made a mistake. In many instances, I probably could have behaved differently, though I hesitate to use the word ‘better.’ Let s/he who is without sin cast the first stone, and all that.
My story is anecdotal proof that following your heart, while often terrifying and sometimes against society’s questionable judgment, will take you where you are needed, and to your happiness. And as another dear friend told me, she also wants to hear about the good stuff in my world because it’s proof that things can and do, in fact, get better.
So, even though I hesitate to post this, here I go. More writing, more reflection, just for the simple joy of it.