Writing in the Dark

It's funny how we mom's fit our needs in with those of our families. I know a fellow writer who types while nursing her baby. I know another that hides in her upstairs closet with her laptop, stealing moments while her children search for her. I have this compulsion to write, but I can't seem to do it if the rest of my life isn't neatly compartmentalized into done to do lists and proactive planning.

Well, that's going to change. I've decided that I need to get me back. I spend so much time worrying and taking care of everyone else that I've lost quite a bit of myself. And I want me back. Writing makes me happy, so I'm going to figure out how I can fit it in. Nope, scratch that. I'm going to make it a priority and, at the same time, I'm going to become more of a priority too.

I've been clickin' and clackin' at these keys for years now. I've written many essays, been published under other names, and been working on a novel for a couple of years now.

I remember losing half of said novel when a virus hit my computer. Looking back, it's the best thing that could have ever happened to it. The rewrite has been tremendously rewarding and successful, but I push it aside, let all the squeaky wheels in my life get the grease. Ugh. It's frustrating even to put it down on paper. I'm not even sure I'm getting through.

I come from writer stock. My brother is a published author. My mom a gifted writer. I can rattle off a letter, a story, an article in very little time. This ramble has taken less than five minutes to get out. I get lost in words. I love to play with them. I've received several job offers since I sold my business to work with words, but the timing, the details, or my situation hasn't been ideal. And, honestly, what was really wrong with all these offers is that the words wouldn't be mine. They'd be smothered with do's and don'ts and must haves and parameters that just suffocate the creative energy in me. Not to mention the fact that I'm really not well enough to handle a full time job with full time responsibilities. And I guess, deep down, I want to write only for me, on my terms, and in my time.

I haven't received a dime for any of the writing I've done so far and that's fine with me. I haven't received any credit or accolades either, and that's fine too. My goal is not to earn a living through writing or to get attention or applause, but to get all the words that rattle around in my head down. Perhaps it's a bit of a compulsion, perhaps it's part of a healing process. Perhaps, I'm just a little crazy.

My blog has been solely mine. I don't spread it around, I don't publicize it and I have been very neglectful lately, mostly because I've been writing elsewhere.

Scary as it is to declare this. I want to write. I want to focus less on documenting my life and more on creating what I know are stories I need to tell. I also think I need to make some changes in my blog life. I think I need to branch out and share more to those closest to me and to others.

This is jumbled and not a great example of my writing style, but I'm excited and nervous and ready to focus more on what makes me happy. And what makes me happy is to write. And to write no longer hidden under someone else's name or behind the pages of a tiny blog. I want to own it, claim it, unwrapped and raw, but all mine.

Do I have the courage to click Publish Post? If you're reading this, I guess I do.