I have always known that this is my dream. I have done everything to make this dream a realisation.
Except, of course, to write.
I've started plenty of times. I've had literally thousands of ideas. I've got notebooks full of scribbles. I've studied and I've worked and I've pushed myself to become a better writer.
But never have a I properly pursued the path or completed one potential book of any kind. If you asked me what I would like to do with my last days if they were soon to come and I would say, to write. If you asked me what would be the content of my words, I cannot tell you.
Every attempt is thwarted by this paralysing fear. My fear is that I don't have anything to say that couldn't be said better, or has already been said better, by someone else. I am afraid to fail. And I don't know what to say. And not nearly two decades of trying has talked me out of this. And yet my dream remains unchanged. And I remain unmoving in my pursuit of it.
What am I here for? Is it this busy rush of domestic duty and money earning and procreation? Is it? And if it isn't, and I really do have choice, who funds that life? Is that even the crux of the matter?
What is this life?
I don't know.
If you do, I'd love to hear your ideas.
You are a writer and always have been. Right now, you are also a mother and breadwinner. Perhaps little snippets of creative fancy are all you can manage right now, but one day there will be more. The idea of 'the book' still looms large in my consciousness also, but I am living other dreams for the moment. In the blink of an eye our babes will be grown. I do not doubt that beautiful things will be written then too. xx
ReplyDeleteThank you Alison. My impatience will simply stop me from seeing the wonders of my life around me. And there is so much wonder! I look forward to reading your first novel with great anticipation!
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