I look like I was living out in the frozen wilderness, where I was panning for adjectives or something else that wild writers do.
–Neil Gaiman
On July 10 of last year, after a month or two of fiddling around with a web site I’ve had for several years, I posted something on this blog. I didn’t post anything on the 11th, but from the 12th until today I have posted something every day. About 165,000 words so far.
Which is a lot, by any standard.
Not that I make any claims to high standards of quality, but for someone as aimless, unmotivated and plagued by a complete lack of follow through in most things I do in my personal life this is kind of a big deal.
Having been around myself quite a bit over the last 50 years, I know that if I have done something every day then I must be getting something out of it. I wonder what it is?
It’s pretty simple to say what it isn’t.
It isn’t easy. It’s a grind. If I’m writing about myself, it’s a bit like being soul naked. If I’m not writing about myself, it’s like undressing someone else while trying to decide how naked THEY would be comfortable being. If I’m writing fiction, it’s hard because, well, I don’t write fiction. I don’t know how to do it, and working full time and having a social life I don’t have time to do it often enough to do it proficiently. That should probably keep me from doing it at all, or at least from publishing what I write…but here’s the thing: if I don’t publish it, I won’t do it at all.
Which still doesn’t tell me why I do it.
It’s a compulsion at this point, but it took a lot of writing to get to the point where I feel a sort of sick need to keep doing it. It wasn’t a compulsion at all in the beginning. I just had some pent up words that needed to get out.
What else is it not? It’s not a need to share a political or religious viewpoint, or some sort of theme with the world. It’s not a knitting blog, or a blog about atheism. It’s not a blog full of inspirational statements or motivational tips. It’s not about how to balance being a mommy with work. It’s not full of cute ideas for crafts.
It’s not like there are things about myself that are unique and need to be shared to inspire people like me, or to let people know they are not alone. I’m a middle aged white American woman who makes a pretty good living. I don’t have any unusual illnesses to discuss. I don’t have any particular financial struggles to share. I am not an expert on coupons or making good business deals.
I also don’t write every day because I like talking about myself. Shut up. I know I talk about myself constantly on the blog. If you know me pretty well, though, you know that’s not usual for me in real life. In real life, I struggle to say much of anything. The blog does seem to be gradually making real life talking a little easier.
So maybe it’s a way to get past that. At least a little.
Maybe it’s a way to get past a lot of fears about a lot of things.
About sharing what I think. Who I am. What I believe. My peculiar ideas about things.
Maybe if I can get them out into the air, it will set all of those ideas and thoughts free, and me along with them. That’s important to me because one thing I have always been, at least as a teenager and adult is afraid of anyone figuring out who I really am and thinking I am weird. Not that I want them to think I’m not weird either. Sigh.
But I *am* weird. That’s the thing. I would hate to be one of those totally conventional people wearing normal clothes, beige skin and boring shoes through life. I don’t want to think the same things that everyone else does.
So what was I so fucking worried about?
That people wouldn’t like me?
They didn’t like me anyway. Probably because they could tell I wasn’t really being myself. Or because I never talked. Because they thought I was too smart for them. Or, yes, because I am different from a lot of people in some way that I don’t think I could ever really define. In the way that everyone is, I suppose.
So when I started being myself more, and really making an effort not to hide from people so much and start having feelings again? Strange things happened. People did like me. People thought I was cool and funny. Maybe I always was. I wasted a lot of time getting there.
So in 165,000 words, I learned some shit. I haven’t set the world on fire with my brains and wit. I don’t have thousands of dedicated readers who are lining up and fighting over who gets to be the first person to post a comment every day. I’m never going to have a book deal. I have something better: I have a version of me that I like way more than the version of me that I was when I was letting being afraid stop me from being who I am.
I’m still afraid a lot of the time.
We all are. Every single one of us.
That doesn’t mean we can’t do the things that we’re afraid of.
You have to do them anyway.
You might get hurt, it’s true. There have been quite a few painful things that have happened in the last 11 months. The secret is that you are going to get hurt anyway. Everyone gets hurt. It is inevitable. Getting hurt while being yourself is scarier than getting hurt while hiding out. It hurts worse in the short term because it was the real you taking the hit.
To me, that’s better than living life constantly dulling yourself down and closing off parts of yourself.
You? I don’t know about you. That’s your story. You can do whatever the fuck you want with yours. It’s yours. No one else can live it or write it for you.
I’m just writing mine.