I’ve tried to write a blog before a few times. It never lasts very long.
It’s so stressful for me.
Writing, I mean.
It didn’t used to be that way. When I was a kid I loved to write and would do it often. There were times I felt so inspired and the pen would just flow and the thoughts were easy and almost seemed to be coming from somewhere else.
From someone else.
Someone really clear and inspired.
I felt free and creative and powerful. Like I could create my own worlds and escape the pain of this one and just be anyone I wanted to be.
I loved that about writing. Creating worlds. Remaking myself. Escaping fear and stress and depression. It was empowering.
And I know now that escaping is tricky because maybe what feels like peace is just the relief that comes from avoidance and maybe we need to face the real world and our problems and deal with it and all of that smart psychology stuff.
I get it.
I’ve been studying that stuff for years and I think there are so many good and important things there. I do believe in facing our problems and processing our issues and working on our traumas and all of that.
But then here is this thing: life is what we make it.
So if we want a great life we have to make it. In our minds. We have to believe in it and live for it. We have to feel it and let that feeling move us and inspire us to live in ways that create it.
We have to dream.
We have to dream of worlds and lives that don’t exist yet.
I think that’s kind of what faith is. The evidence of things not seen. The substance of things hoped for. We have to hope for something we can’t see yet, or that isn’t the reality right now.
And that’s what writing used to be for me. A place where I could dream and create and hope for spectacular and beautiful and fun and good things.
Somewhere along the lines that changed. I’m not sure exactly when or why, but I got so overwhelmed with the perfectionism of it all. I needed to write perfectly. Perfect grammar. Perfect spelling. Perfect story-telling. It had to be incredibly engaging all the time and inspired and inspiring. It was as if every word and every paragraph and every story had to be Pulitzer-worthy or it had to be thrown out. All or nothing.
And so now writing is stressful. It’s exhausting to me.
But I’m trying to change that a little bit.
felt like I needed to start writing again, so here is the first attempt. It may not all be great. May not even be good at all. But I guess maybe this is more for me than anyone. Just to write again. To create. To let go of the need for perfection and just try to express something meaningful or sincere. To hope again. Maybe even to be naive or unrealistic. But to just do it without so many expectations.
Maybe people will read and maybe they won’t, but it doesn’t really matter.
It shouldn’t matter, I guess.
So here’s to some imperfect, clumsy, even at times bad writing. And to creating and hoping and dreaming.