I was poking around and saw that there is a poetry class at the college I graduated from in a time slot I can make between my work and being a mom/wife. And then I realized that, if I went, real people that I would have to physically see would be reading my work. I would likely run into my old adviser - actually, I would probably seek him out just to say hi, and the words would just start falling out of my stupid head when he'd ask if I still write, and despite my anxieties I'd tell him about this blog because my head often belies my fears.
Once, I was abstract painting on canvas with colors I thought were nice, and the result was so disgustingly terrible to me I had to throw it in the dumpster outside. Even before doing that, I had to completely destroy the canvas lest someone see it and link it back to me.
This is how I feel about my writing.
I thought this blog would be better than what it is. I had high hopes that it would spur me into writing, and then for the content of the blog, I would write about the process. I've tried - I have a whole bulleted page with topics to write about and now that I'm actually cracking at it, I have nothing to say. I don't know how the writing process works - for myself, let alone generally and in a way in which I could explain it to others. What the hell was I thinking?
I'm actually reflecting on what I thought was a grand idea so many months ago and chuckling to myself. This doesn't even sound anything like me, or like something I would do. I suck at directions - note the entry with the mystery recipe card.
I don't know. I fucked up a little, I guess. But, I am writing. And I love it. I love this project so much, it's the best concept I have ever had and if I can get down on paper even close to what's rolling around in my head, I think I might actually have something here.
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