I don’t wish I were a writer. I don’t pretend to be a writer. I just am a writer.
Why am I always a half step off what those around me are thinking and doing? I’m out of place, and I’m trying to find my place. Story of my life. Nothing ever seems to change. That’s one of the pieces of my life that’s coming clear to me in this writing. No wonder I’m where I am.
I’ve been thinking about who I am, who I was, and what I want. You’re seeing it as I’m writing it, and I want this life more than I did when I started. The problem is what good is writing if no one is listening or reading? I love what I’ve been doing, and I believe that is enough. However, I wonder sometimes if it should be shared publicly. I don’t have an extraordinary life. I don’t do anything that deserves acknowledgement–except for this.
I wanted this blog to be meaningful to someone else besides me. It does mean the world to me, but I feel as if I’m blogging into cyberspace and no one is listening. Even worse, I feel as if I’m being ridiculed for what I’m saying. Now I know the chances are good that no one out there actually ridicules me. This is just a really weird situation. Maybe I need to read Julie and Julia again or watch the movie. I don’t expect national coverage because of this blog. I just want someone out there to be helped.
I want to figure out where the blocks in my life are. I’m seeing patterns. I just need to put those patterns together to form the whole.
I am a writer. Maybe I’m not writing the right things. But I am a writer. I’ll figure things out one day. Until then, I’ll just keep writing.