When I was younger I used to write a lot. It was mostly private journals and poetry fueled by a lot of teen angst. Granted some of it may seem silly now, but it was an outlet. I cherished my writing more than anything in the world. I still have every journal and tablet I set my pen to. I'm not sure any of my thoughts were Pulitzer prize winners. In fact most of it was pretty raw, but it was me. Life has happened. I don't blame or regret any of the twists or turn that have come. I love my husband and my children more than anything, but sometimes I feel like that part of me is dead. Okay maybe dead is a strong term. From time to time I still feel the embers burning in the deepest parts of me, but life require me to be completely present and I often find my old passion seems a waste or an excess my mind has no time to fuel any longer. I have tried to force myself to just write, feverishly putting pen to paper in hopes maybe one spark of inspiration, one small transference of my innermost dreams will make its way out. Instead I find a jumbled mess of words that are more akin to this lament than anything even remotely inspired.
I have enjoyed blogging, but yet I still feel something lacking. In the advance of the digital age it is all too common for any person anywhere to throw out one's thought and words, sometimes with very little thought. Not that I am looking for one, but I feel blogging has become very "niche" oriented. Unfortunately I do not find myself to excel at any one thing that I feel I am even qualified to sound authoritative on. I am a mom, yes. I can cook, yes. I am not necessarily a health guru. I'm not up on all the latest thrifting mom fashions. I can't tell you how to coupon to the extreme and spend $5 on your groceries. I've decided that while photography is awesome, my funds are limited to buy all the fancy equipment so I can simply post my awesome pictures. (By the way a lot of you do have awesome pictures.)
This just leaves me as a plain old blogger. Plain text is SO 20th century.
I miss those old writing days. I miss the way I felt after spilling my heart onto a piece of paper!
What is wrong with me? I have not found how to effectively carry out the practical side of life without stifling the words that are trying to bubble up from within me.
Is this what they call writer's block?