I don’t write because I am afraid to fail. I am horrified that the words I string together will make no sense at all, get no reaction, and have no impact. In fact, I fear that what I write might be so bad that people will laugh, they will mock. I am so afraid of being a horrible writer that I just don’t write.
I have big dreams of being a writer. I read everything there is to read on the subject of writing; how to be a freelance writer, how to create three dimensional characters, the best way to weave your plot line. I spend countless hours surfing the web to find the hottest new writing network, newest contests and calls for submissions. But I never submit anything, primarily because I never produce anything to submit.
I won a short story contest in high school once. One of my poems was published in a poetry anthology that same year. Then I wrote a column for my local newspaper and even got my picture printed next to the headline. I got to go down to the newspaper company and meet the writers, have my picture taken and view the buildings. I was ecstatic.
That’s because back then, in my naïve youthful dream-pursuing days, I had passion. I didn’t have much life experience. I lacked the maturity and knowledge of an older adult. But I knew well the things that thrilled me, the things that got my heart pumping like a five year old on Christmas morning. And one of those things was writing. I could write anything; short stories, long stories, funny antics, poems, even nonsensical rantings.
I could write anything, anywhere, at any time. I had a habit of carrying around a little journal and pen just in case I suddenly struck with the million dollar line, which surprisingly happened quite frequently. When I didn’t have my journal with me, I’d scribble notes on napkins, paper coasters, even my hands if there was nothing else around. It was exhilarating to find inspiration in every moment, to see old things in a new way, to find expression in the mundane.
As we get older, we are told to put our childish ways behind. We are instructed to settle down, find security, maintain stability and be responsible. I believe that somewhere along the line, I took that child like passion and folded it up, nice and neatly, and tucked it away in one of my many boxes currently locked away in storage. Time goes on, we experience interruptions and distractions in life, and we forget about the box all together. At some point in our elder years, as we reminisce, it comes back to us. All the joy and excitement that has long since been stored away, traded for the sophistication of adulthood. It is in that moment of remembrance that we are met with a deep sense of remorse, an overwhelming sadness that causes us to grieve something that should never have been lost.
I am wandering somewhere between that passionate child and the dismayed elder. It is time, I think, to begin a new journey; a journey of somewhat uncharted territory, one that will take me back to that storage room. There, I will open up the box that holds my neatly folded passion and I will fling it wildly out of the box until it flies in the wind like a giant sheet tacked onto the laundry line outside.
Today I begin that journey.
