I have not been participating in this community in the ways that I want to. I want to be commenting more. I want my presence on friends’ blogs to be felt, and I know it’s not when my words are missing. The blog reader/commenter I am currently is not the blog reader/commenter I want to be, and I’m brainstorming ways to make sure I comment every day–it’s a top priority for me right now.
I am sorry have been absent. I am still reading, and my words will return soon.
I was a little disappointed in myself for my last two posts. I have wanted to avoid that kind of ranty, venty type of writing in this space and I’m trying hard not to publish when I’m feeling that kind of overwhelmed desperation. I’m still let myself write about those kinds of things, but I’m convincing myself to do it in a journal, to keep my words away from this space until they can be more productive. I don’t know quite what came over me when I put up those posts.
Actually I do know. It was panic. The state of my house, and my life, has been weighing on me and I was struck but how I am perpetually in this place of frantically treading water in a terrifyingly strong current. It is no way to lives one’s life, and yet I’m not sure how to swim out of the current. I guess I keep expecting the water to slow, or even eddy in a quiet pool, but clearly that is never going to happen and I am recognizing that I have a responsibility to myself and my family to change directions and swim with all my might to the shore, or else I’ll eventually get pulled under.
So I sat down and I wrote. Like I used to. And the words came, fast and easy. And it felt good to get it out there.
But it didn’t necessarily feel good the next morning, when I realized my words were actually, out there.
Writing here has been hard–harder than I expected it to be. I struggle with what topics to tackle and how to approach them. I struggle with finding the right words.
I might not ever be the writer I want to become. I read articles that are so well written, that make me think and want to comment, that change my perspective or feel validate and understood and I think, I am not sure I could ever write that well. It’s an uncertainty I’m not accustomed to, not because I assume I can do whatever I want as well as I hope to do it, but because I have never pushed myself to achieve such a nebulous goal.
The big things I’ve tried to accomplish had definitive endings: I knew when I had arrived at my destination. I trained for a marathon and then I ran one. I applied for a graduate school program and earned my Masters in Spanish Language Education (while working full time, managing the emotional turmoil of TTC and an ectopic pregnancy and then having my first child). Those goals were clear and I had physical proof that I met them. But this goal of becoming a better writer, it’s ambiguous and undefined. It’s subjective.
It’s a matter of opinion.
And whose opinion matters most?
It probably should be mine, but human beings are social creatures and we all know it’s more complicated than that. I’m just not sure. I can’t really imagine that I’ll ever feel like I’m as good a writer as I want to be, or as a good a writer as I feel I need to be to start using my words in more ways than this one.
Moving to this blog and the personal change it represented for me has been so much more complicated than I expected. I don’t regret doing it, because I know something had to change, but I’m disappointed that it hasn’t been a more positive experience for me. (And please know this is all internal, and has nothing to do with anyone’s participation here. You have all been amazing and I am thankful that you read and comment each and every day).
I miss writing more. I miss the words flowing like they used to. I miss processing life through my words. I miss writing just to write.
I miss knowing who I am in my own space.
Heck, I miss knowing who I am, period.
Change is hard. It will get better. I’m try not to get disillusioned and most of the time I succeed.
Most of the time.