I haven't written in five days. It feels like an eternity to me, but I have been in a funk the past few days so I guess that is the main reason why, along with the chaos of life a full time job, three kids and a husband (no partridge in a pear tree though) I have had almost no time. It is genuinely next to impossible trying to sit down and focus when one or both of my little ones are interrupting me with some crisis or other every five minutes. Like the Barney DVD is over and Chloe, my three year old daughter nearly has a nervous breakdown because I have not immediately dropped what I am doing to go press play on the player for her. Any activity is difficult with constant interruptions, writing especially and especially when no one but your friends are reading your posts. Then I start to think, if I really wanted to get down to it, who am I writing for? For myself, first and foremost of course, because God knows I love the sound of my own voice and blogging gives me the golden opportunity to ramble my ass off as much as I want and there is no one out there to shut me up or better yet, interrupt! However, that is also not such a great thing for it means my readership is virtually non-existent, save for my trusty pal Squishy Kuma. So in the great vast unknown that is cyberspace can anybody hear me?
Lately between bouts of despair and distractions, I have been making somewhat of an effort to write more in order to have something concrete to submit to whoever is willing to read my stuff and publish me. Until then I am on my own to try to establish a link between my blog where I have decided to start, and the outside world. If I have no followers, then essentially as much as I may be writing, I have no blog. It's like that old saying, "If a tree falls in the forest and there is no one to hear it, does it make a sound?" If I am writing but no one sees my work, can I call myself a writer?" I believe the answer is yes. Mostly because thinking the answer might be no, could discourage me from pursuing this lifelong dream on the cusp of turning forty. Whether I am writing here, on my stationary at work, I am always doing it with the idea in mind that at some point in the very near future all of my work will pay off. And there are nights when the planets align just right, the kids are asleep at a decent hour, all is quiet and I settle down with my laptop. The conditions for some massive productivity could not be more perfect and then comes my second biggest problem in writing. What the fuck do I say?? I buckle down and say "I WILL WRITE" and it's almost like trying to shit when you're constipated. You can't. You feel like you have to go, and you strain and strain, but nothing comes out. Trying to force myself to write is a lot like that and almost as painful. And sometimes I even end up feeling sweaty and feverish afterwards. I know, not the most appealing analogy, but it is what comes closest to how I feel when I try to make the words come. At the risk of sounding like a whiny four-year old, I hate hate hate that feeling and it really sucks. Sometimes I ramble on and on and that is probably easiest to do because I can throw together whatever is in my head at the moment, then go back to attempt to make sense out of it all later. But I live for the days when my inner skies open, words rain down, and I fall in love with the art of the written word all over again. It is these moments when I am happy to be so productive. Even if it's only those closest to me who will see. By the same token, I would soooo be lying if I said being followed by people I actually don't know isn't that big of a deal to me. It is a VERY. BIG. DEAL. I want what every aspiring writer wants, to be seen, acknowledged and praised for work brilliantly done. Surely that is not too much to ask for...is it? to be continued...
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