Look, here’s the thing.
I feel like I don’t know how to write anymore.
I have a million things running through my head all day, all of them interesting, but bungled. I can’t pay attention to my own thoughts. I can’t pay attention to anything.
It used to be that I could make the time to sit and put thoughts on paper, but this is the first chance I’ve gotten in months so you’ll excuse me if this is a bit stream of consciousness but I am trying to capture the moment before it flies away and I have to go back to taking care of everyone else and important things like dusting and laundry.
I used to draw, too. My happiest memories of my teenage years include long nights of listening to music and drawing at my roll top desk. I would draw until 3 in the morning. Or knit. Or make Photoshop art. Or write silly song lyrics or work on that novel I’ve been “working on” since I was thirteen. My summers were spent with creating things. Not always beautiful things, but things I was proud of.
Virginia Woolf’s “A Room of One’s Own” makes more sense now than it did when I read it two years ago. Woolf hypothesized that all a woman needed to pursue her creative genius was a year’s salary and a room to herself where she could make whatever she wanted.
As it is, I’m making a year’s salary by writing other people’s emails for them and not much else.
Sometimes I wonder, though, if it would be any different if I had all the time to do whatever creative things I wanted to do all day. Would I just waste that time away?
You see, there’s a curse that comes with perfectionism. You become so afraid of making mistakes that you don’t make anything at all.
But you want to.
I started this blog about Christianity and feminism. It’s my favorite subject, but I’m too intimidated to write about it for fear of being shot down for not knowing enough. Or saying things right.
I want to draw, too. And knit. I used to have so much skill in my hands, but now it seems all my hands are good for is taking really quick dictation. One year as surrogate-email-writer has done a world of good for my typing skills but nothing for my imagination.
This summer has been a list of days. Not bad days (eh, there were a few) but a lot of average ones.
I keep waiting for the moment in the movie of my life where the montage music will start playing and in a few moments that novel will be done and I’ll stare at its printed pages, weary-eyed but proud.
A lot of work goes into those montages. It’s not that it’s work I’m not willing to do, but there are so many other things to do that everyone tells me are more important. Spending time on what I love seems selfish and silly in comparison.
Yet, somehow, here I am. I’m still writing. I can’t help it. I may not have anything new to say yet, but I had to say this much or bust.
And that is all.