Twitter reminds me repeatedly through various posts, “writers write.” I want to be a writer.
Today, however, I don’t want to do the grueling work. Instead, I’d like to gloss over the mess gurgling in me. Lately, I’ll eagerly write other bits, Tasty Thursday posts, or things that feel somehow outside of me. I dutifully post to honor commitments I made to my accountability partner and my husband.
But, I’m still hiding even as I’ve posted the last few weeks. It is spring. Sun is shining. Daffodils are about to bloom, and I feel weary of sad and mad conversation. Or at least I worry that readers tire of my melancholic thoughts.
Avoiding my interior life feels like trying to grasp a peeled, ripe mango. The more I want to keep words under wraps, to say to myself let’s not unpack that right now because I just can’t even, the more they demand to break free. As I keep drafting and setting aside, those slippery feelings launch into unexpected topics. Splat! There they go. Let’s try something else. Splat! They slip out again.
Writing comes with grinding effort lately. Or at least putting together words that I’m willing to publish does. The serious posts — the ones about infertility or identity — feel corked. There’s so much happening in me these days. I find myself filling journals and any spare paper with reflections, partial thoughts and sketches.
However, when it comes time to draft a post or polish an idea or contemplate publicizing a post, I find myself frozen. Fear comes flapping in to roost like a chicken on steroids.
I want to believe love is stronger than fear. That God’s love is enough to drive out the terror of judgment, whether it be from stranger, family, or friend. That J’s love is enough to remind me that I’m not alone, nor abandoned. That my kindred spirit friends are enough to remind me grace is sufficient, and the life springing from the writing is worth a few ripples of discontent. I know these things.
Right now fear seems stronger.
The feelings do not care about truth, fact or logic today. Yes, I shall weather this. It just feels yucky this week. See how I compulsively feel the need to manage other people’s worries about me? And maybe I need that reminder for myself too.
Like most writers do at some point or another, I look around and see how things have already been said by people more articulate than me. I do not feel that I am anything close to “enough.” I know the statement is untrue. The feeling still persists.
I don’t have cures today. I’m fresh out.
Instead, I offer my current mess. Maybe I’m not the only one dealing today. If you’re in a patch of uncertainty and wrestling, you’re not the only one. You’re not alone. And to you say, I say, “welcome.” We’re not in this alone.