I’ve been struggling with pushing the publish button for a bit yet again, and to combat that, I’ve been looking for new motivation to hang on my bathroom mirror to replace the other ones that were once my daily mantras. I was on the phone with a close friend yesterday who told me that she loves my writing and I exhaled the compliment out with a full body reaction. I didn’t ask for the compliment or bring up writing; I didn’t mention my current struggle, and yet the compliment was there for me. My shoulders sagged as I couldn’t remember the last time I wrote something real. Her words reminded me that I’m a little lost when I’m not putting words together. Not in the grand sense, but I can feel it.
It’s not that I haven’t been writing; I’ve actually been writing a lot for work and it’s incredible because I will be a published writer soon and I won’t complain about that, but I think I put writing into categories or folders if you will, and right now, the therapeutic one is pretty empty. The truth is that it scares me to know that if I don’t do it here, I won’t do it, and if I don’t, then it just goes away, disappearing into the disposal with all of my other lost words.
I’m not a disciplined writer, or one who is writing as a career. I don’t do research to become a better writer; I just have this slightly nagging feeling that I’m suppose to be doing it. This might be why I get a little satisfaction out of one well written sentence, comment, or a bumper sticker thought. I don’t have to be on the mark, but then, sometimes, I do. I fall on my tongue every day to find entry points with others or simply try to be empathetic and I’m fine with making mistakes so why is it that I struggle with just rambling to ramble with my writing?
They say that you get better at writing by doing it. The message for myself this evening is that the little pieces mean something.