What's wrong with my writing lately?
Why haven't I been jumping online the moment I return home from my long, exhausting day to divulge my thoughts, secrets, emotions, and many opinions to the world wide web, like I have so often in the past? (e.g. "the daily kaylie") When I DO jump online to express some poignant or seemingly interesting idea, why isn't it forming itself on my computer screen the way I intended? Why are my phrases choppy, my sentences poorly formed, my ideas lacking?
It's like a piece of myself is missing-- the piece that likes to share her life with the world.
No, not missing. It's there. It's just not being used-- not being typed for the world to witness.
So, is it there, really?
Never mind-- let's not get philosophical.
Anyway, I feel as though I am missing a muse. Not MY muse, necessarily. But A muse. Just one.
Or, perhaps I am just lost-- away from the place where muses will find me. But let's not consider that, shall we?
Instead, consider this: Fear.
Maybe it's fear. Maybe I'm just scared of the things that I write. It could be feelings of inadequacy-- my desire to be something, someone; to make a difference with my writing-- maybe it is being smothered by a shadowing fear of inability.
I love to read. If you are reading this and you have a blog, I've probably read it. Don't be creeped out-- I read most anything I can get my hands on. (Or browser...) In school-- I was the kid that always missed the bus because it took me twenty minutes to eat a bowl of cereal. Not because I'm a slow eater-- but because I refused to eat without reading something along with it-- which, consequently, caused my daily, morning eating ritual to take 75 times longer than it should have taken. Every. Day.
When I was 7, I had my bed time extended from 7:30 to 8:00. Because I couldn't be in my room with the light on, I would sit in the hallway and read, instead. When Mom came down and told me it was time for bed, I would jump in the covers with a reading light my parents had (regretably) gotten me for Christmas, and read for another hour. Somedays I got caught, and somedays I read late into the night. It was just the way I was.
Because I like to read, I've encountered many (incredible) writers. Novels, classics, auto-biographies, biographies, essays, editorials, even blogs. Most of the time, I thoroughly appreciate their writing. I delve into their world without a moments notice, or a look behind me. Every once and a while, though, I find it hard to delve, and I more appropriately simmer. Simmer, because I FRY myself in their lovely works of literature. I enjoy the writing, but only a little, because all the while, I'm cooking myself, thinking, "Why on earth did I ever think I could write? What was I thinking when I developed a love for expressing myself through words on paper? I'll never be able to write like that..."
I suppose that's the type of funk I've been in for the last little while. No, I haven't stopped writing-- as I know how important it is for an aspiring writer to write every day. I've just stopped sharing.
And that makes me a coward.
What am I scared of? That YOU, whoever YOU are, won't enjoy my writing? That you will judge me for having dreams, and pursuing them? (And I am not implying here that I am pursuing my dreams through blogger.com. But again, what if I was? Why should you care? Why should I care that you care?) Am I scared of being boring, uninteresting, grammatically incorrect, or offensive?
Well, enough is enough.
I have long avoided posting the link to my blog on facebook, because I know how accessible it will then be. I have attempted keeping this blog as private as it can possibly be (considering the fact that it IS public) as long as I possibly could.
But, today is the day.
And by golly, it's epic.
So here is my welcome to you, facebook friends.
Take it or leave it, but this is me, and this is what I love.
Thanks for reading.
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