Welcome & Thank You

Welcome Curious Reader and thank you for finding your way to my blog.

This salutation of course assumes that anyone will care to read this. And with that statement, I have shown you why writing, the "thing" which I have come to realize is the filter through which I process the world, is so damned hard for me.

The act of setting my ideas to paper, whether in prose, poetry or essays, calls a veritable army of insecurities to the fore. Who wants to read anything I would write? I have been wrestling with this particular problem for the last fifteen years.

Three years ago, in one of my favorite locations on earth, Lily Dale, NY- I was meditating and received the following message- "The singer does not sing, the dancer does not dance, the lover does not love, the writer does not write... What are you afraid of?"

I wrote the message in my journal, but hardly needed to. It was burned into my brain. "What are you afraid of?"

I have carried it with me, that question. I have pulled it out, looked it over, tasted and touched it, then sat it back on the shelf of my consciousness.

Intellectually, I understood my conceits about writing (especially journaling and blogging). To write about one's personal experiences and inner life seems an inherently arrogant act. It presupposes that anyone might care. Add to that the usual baggage of the writer: The steamer trunk of fear, containing all the requisite cubbyholes and drawers for the opinions of friends, family, classmates, professors, colleagues, critics... And for the truly blessed; editors and publishers; and you have a pretty decent snapshot of the roadblock that has been sitting between my desire and my actions.

Even I can see it boils down to one point. What if I am not good enough?

I have not overcome that fear. As I sit here now, my mouth is cottony, there is a dull throb in my head and my ears are ringing. My fingers have become cold and my breathing shallow.

What I have done is to acknowledge the fear, and write anyway. In Writer Magazine sometime this spring, March I think, there is a reprint of an article from 1992. In it, the author discusses why people become writers. To paraphrase: Some of us spring from the womb with pen in hand and just start writing. Some of us start writing when we've realized there is nothing else left to do to try to NOT write. (I will provide the proper quotation and credit ASAP.)

I am in the latter group. I was blessed with a facility for language that allowed me to start reading at age three. This gift also allows me to read very fast. There is no time in my life that I do not remember reading. By age twelve, I was a book addict. Fiction and biographies were my drugs of choice.

My favorite thing in the world at that time? A cold rainy afternoon. I would race home after school so I could snuggle sideways in the blue and white floral armchair in the living room with some monster of a book and two whole hours before dinner. I devoured books. I still do, although I have to take my hits in smaller doses, with a grown up life to tend to. Even now, having to lay aside an unfinished book causes a pang of loss.

Another time, I will fill in the blanks between the flowered chair of my youth and the red leather sofa of now. It is a long and twisty road, full of potholes and garbage. For now, I hope it is enough for you to know that I am full of... fear (In case you were thinking of another "full of" idiom, I would agree with you on that as well.), but I have arranged my life now in such a way that to NOT write is more painful than writing.

I am a student again. In a month, I re-enter academia as a Creative Writing Major. This is part of the plan. If I have to write, then I HAVE TO WRITE. I am an obsessive overachiever when I feel I may fail at something. If I don't write, I will fail, so I must write.

It took me the whole of my life to arrive at this point. There is no turning back.

So, thank you again for reading. I'll keep you posted.