Last night I went out with my family to see my sister-in-law and others read things they'd written for an amiable crowd at Mississippi Studios. Listening to everyone's fascinating and soul-revealing work made me wonder why I don't actually write anything, or why, when I do, it always feels so forced and inauthentic. The conclusion I came to when discussing it later with my family was that I don't think any of my stories are really ready to be told yet.
Later that night I found myself unable to sleep. Questions I didn't even know I had kept echoing through my head, like "when are you going to just be an adult?" and "when are you going to stop waiting for someone else to validate your existence?" The more I tugged at the thread of why I couldn't write, the more I realized it was because I don't want to be honest with myself (or anyone else). I carry around a little package of deep, dark secrets with me every day and some portion of my brain is always actively engaged in covering them up. The prospect of writing feels a little too much like opening that package and showing the contents to the world, when I'm not even sure I'm ready to look at them yet.
Of course now that I have acknowledged that arrangement, I am very curious to find out what's in there.
1 comment:
I was over at big fat blog when I found you. I hate to say I am stalking you, but you have become a hero in my mind. I enjoyed reading your blogs here and thought this one was the best. I suppose that is because I assume you are much younger than I, but mentally I am much younger than you. I am 41 years of age, feeling 16. The box I hide has made my life miserable and I hope you can get what you are looking for, because for me, it may be to late.
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