I really do want to write. I enjoy writing. It feels good to produce something. It feels good to “get it out.” And maybe I’m egotistical but I like people to read what I’ve written and maybe find encouragement or humor or a kindred soul.
During my preteen and teenage years I journaled extensively. It was critical that I document all the feelings, escapades and trivia of my mostly blissful but also typically hormonal adolescence. I later burned those journals. I didn’t want all that immaturity to come back and haunt me… or whatever descendant might happen upon them one day.
Of all the articles I wrote for print during the seven years I worked for newspapers, the only ones I clipped and kept were editorial-type pieces; the ones not about “news” but about life.
So writing has been important to me for a long time. But it has fallen low on the priority list. There are so many “should”s in life, not to mention “must”s and the “I think it’s a must but really it’s not”s, that engaging in something as trivial (not the right word), wasteful (not quite right either), frivolous (getting closer) as writing for a blog that no one reads anymore because I’ve left it abandoned for far too long, or even just for myself should I never get around to pushing the “publish” button seems trifling (resorted to the thesaurus to find that one).
But another mom-of-many who is also a writer who finds herself in a time of unfortunate neglect of her talent inspired me with a recent blog post to sit down outside in the dappled shade, let the breeze tease my hair and just write something, get it out, let it flow, take a breather, be indulgent.
She wrote, "A writer writes always. And not because of the need to produce as much as the need to just exhale. Verbally/mentally/emotionally speaking."