writing is calling my name...
it won't leave me alone. so, here we go.
beginnings are hard.
I keep talking myself out of this. I find excuse after excuse to not share my thoughts. But Writing has been stalking me for weeks, and I can't quite let it go anymore. So here are my most recent thoughts on starting to write again and why it feels inevitable, accompanied by a few tangents, of course. Don’t be fooled by my unnecessarily dramatic tone, I wouldn’t be doing this if I weren’t having a good time.
Journal Entry, Aug. 13th, 2023:
“For whatever reason, writing seems to be calling my name. Not the kind that you’re supposed to share with anyone because it’s beautiful and eloquent. Not the kind that’s posted to blog pages because it’s educated and inspiring. Just the kind that naggingly reminds you there’s a blank page, you’re a human person with thoughts and feelings, and the two should rendezvous. Maybe your nervous system or subconscious or psyche is saying it needs the release, so you allow it, despite not being a “writer.” It’s the self-improvement kind. The letting-go kind. The releasing-a-breath-you-didn’t-know-you-were-holding kind. And for some reason, it happens on a Sunday evening between a flurry of to-do’s, hours of delicious reading, chopped veggies and a subsequent wounded finger, and watching the sky clear after a full day of gray drizzle. That’s all; there’s no particular object of the journal entry. Just the gnawing sense to put pen to paper and let a stream of consciousness appear tangibly in front of me. Apparently, the simple act of crafting a few sentences here and there seems to be satisfactory to whatever itch needed to be scratched.
There’s a deeper knowing, still unconscious reasons, that this needs to be done. My mind floats back to self-improvement. Becoming a better writer means becoming a better person. I don’t know why. I just know I’m supposed to be writing. With deeper reflection, the musings from writers are floating to the surface. I listen to them speak about their work, their life, and it causes a flutter in my chest, a lump in my throat. A respect that somatically lurches around, manifesting as teary eyes in one moment and a hollow ache the next. I admire them more than I can put into words, and this is how my body responds. It’s a hunger to be like them, grow like them, think like them, learn like them, express like them. And maybe the few measly journal entries pitter-pattered out on my laptop on a Sunday evening will someday manufacture a person I also respect more than words. A person I admire so immensely it causes heartache to swell up inside me. A person I can somehow be proud of, despite her lack of achievements, because any worldly success pales in comparison to the accomplishment of being able to express oneself freely.
The expression is what hurts most. I listen to the writer speak intentionally, slowly, mindfully. She says what she means. She means what she says. She commands time and space to linger as she gathers her thoughts for an introspective response. Then the world begins to turn again as she shares from the depths of her being and I’m in awe. I think of the way I flutter around my room, my house, my work, my life. A thousand thoughts and worries muddling my ability to exist unfiltered. A judgement here; a criticism there; one miscommunication after another. Heaps of insecurities and misunderstandings piling one on top of the other until the simple act of undiluted expression now requires an intimidating amount of heavy lifting—20 pounds of lingering insecurities from a sibling’s comment; 10 pounds of jumping to conclusions from my partner’s text; 50 pounds of bottled expectations placed firmly on my shoulders by yours truly. And all of it makes me wonder, is this meager journal entry enough? Is a thousand consecutive days of spilling my consciousness onto a page enough to become eloquently unfiltered? Or is it a trait I simply wasn’t born with? A trait that would always come in conflict with the anxious flitting about, timidly keeping the peace, sensitively reading the room, constantly watching out for others.
What began an aimless spew of words has morphed into a purposeful self-exploration. And even though I’ve ended up here, face to face with some of my least favorite traits, I’m somehow having the best time. That must be the magic of writing. Maybe the little nagging voice is worth listening to after all.”
So, there's my dilemma. I will start writing again because something inside me tells me it's invaluable to my evolution. Unfortunately, contrary to Substack’s advice, I don’t know what kind of community I want to build through my writing, how often I’ll post, and what about. I don’t have clarity for my readers, yet. But I hope to continue to use this platform to share my headspace as authentically as possible as often as possible. If people show up and start doing the same, I wouldn’t complain…
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