I love starting new journals. I just unwrapped the plastic casing of a set of journals, held one to my nose and flipped the pages, inhaled its new paper smell as the soft sheets brushed across my skin.
I just finished filling my last journal (a gift from a dear friend that she gave me before I moved to San Diego nearly four (gasp!) years ago–my maiden name printed in cursive across the front cover) this morning with some thoughts on writing.
I do this from time to time–think about writing, write about writing. Why? Well, I think it’s because writing (and writers) is something I’ve always admired, looked upon with awe, revered in some sense. And, also, writing has always been a part of my life in some way or another: I’ve journaled since I was a kid, excelled in writing throughout school, and have dabbled in writing outside of journaling and papers here and there, in the form of a couple chapters of a book, an essay, a poem.
But I’ve always felt as though I don’t belong to the club of those who brand themselves as “writers;” like “they” have what is takes, and, simply put, I don’t. That they know a sacred secret to which I’m not privy. That they get it, are “in,” while I’m left outside, curious and a bit confused, door shut in my face.
One of my biggest obstacles to writing is my perfectionism (ah, good old friend he is). I build writing up in my head to be this holy, almost magical feat (which, in a way, it is), and just about paralyze myself before pen ever even touches paper. In my mind, I am already defeated. I do not often possess the freedom to, as Ernest Hemingway put it, “sit down at a typewriter and bleed.” Instead, I make a careful, well-planned incision, thoughtfully consider each single drop of blood, inspect it from every angle, before hesitantly dabbing it onto the line.
The only way to break through this self-inflicted paralysis, it seems, is to actually write–consistently, when it feels awkward, impossible, labored–over and over again. It’s like muscle memory–training your arm to glide effortlessly and automatically through the air instead of narrating under your breath each step of the ball-throwing process. Yet, easier said than done.
Funny enough, it’s my husband (the web developer) who’s been teaching me (the English teacher) about writing these days. He’s been getting up early every morning before work to read, then write, and, finally, to publish the writing online. The writing is typically not perfect, nor is it always profound or polished, but it is meaningful, valuable, and, most importantly, he’s simply doing it. Getting it done, making it happen–squashing that paranoid paralysis under his shoe like a screeching bug.
That’s inspiring to me. He is inspiring to me. Writing, though surely magical, is really accomplished in the mundane, Tuesday-morning-before-work, messy everydayness of normal life. And I can do mundane, messy, everydayness just fine.
So, I’m making a list of things to write about, but I’m not setting any great goals or holding myself to any type A expectations or standards for my perfectionist self to set its sights upon. I simply want to come up with some ideas to write about, and then sit down to write about them at some point. Maybe publish some of them online. We’ll see.
Why? Because writing is beautiful and holds deep meaning and purpose. Because it’s something I believe God wove into the fabric of my being when He designed me. Because it’s something I’ve always eyed from a safe distance, like an expensive piece of glassware at a store that I don’t dare touch for fear of shattering it across the floor. I’ve dared to allow my fingertips to brush against its smooth surface from time to time, and I think it’s about time to take a solid hold and just pick the damn thing up.
Things to write about:
–work
–teaching
–being pregnant; becoming a mom
–teaching support English: struggles, failures, lessons, successes; “The Rose That Grew From Concrete”
–calling/talents/vocation
–lessons from my parents
–my marriage/my husband
–cooking/food
–nature
–my dog
–things that make me sad
–things that make me mad
–things that bring me joy
–things I wonder about
–my flaws: perfectionism, self-doubt, inadequacy, people-pleasing
–wisconsin
–dreams
–fears
–what I’m reading
–god
Thank you for sharing, Sandy.
I identify with a lot of what you’re saying, but it hits me a little differently in this season. I’ve been coming to the realization that my writing is too precious to me. Sharing my thoughts, ideas, observations is painful and difficult because of my need to control perception and an innate, almost subconscious desire to protect myself. Writing is very intimate. Even when I write something surface-y and unimportant, it’s a window into who I really am. Which I’m compelled to share, but dread exposing any of myself.
Definitely not projecting any of that on you, but wanted to share some of my story… not exactly sure why… but I did.
Keep writing and we’ll keep reading.
Thanks for reading and sharing your thoughts, Jon. That’s really interesting, and I understand your point. You are totally right: writing is super intimate, which makes us vulnerable. Do you mean that you’ve decided to hold back from sharing your writing because it is too precious to you and sharing it is too great a risk? Or that you dread exposing yourself, but you do so anyways? I know that you have a strong, unique, and invaluable voice that has made a great impact on me and so many others countless times.
A little bit of both. Too precious is a weakness for me because it’s a form of pride… I take it too seriously or regard it too highly. Sometimes, I just need to “publish” as Bryan puts it and not have an overblown view. Once you put it out into the world, it’s out there… just like everyone else who writes and cares deeply about their words. That’s a universal experience.
At the same time, I also am writing for myself with no intention of publishing because it is intimate and meant for personal growth. If I focus on creating a “product” to share, I lose a lot of the value of the writing process… which feeds my soul. Really it’s journaling, but it gives me a voice to express things I can’t put into coherent words or even thoughts. Some things don’t make sense until they’re on paper. I’ve very much been driven by what others think of me and insecurity about my value, so keeping an avenue of expression just for me is healing.
Yes, yes, yes. I totally know what you mean. Throughout most of my life I’ve found writing to be the best way for me to process and work through emotional turmoil, confusion, and hurt. When I’m writing like that (which is most of the time), the idea of “creating a ‘product’ to share,” has to be nowhere near my mind. Because, like you said, it puts a pressure and new lens on the writing experience. And when I’m writing for healing or out of personal necessity, I need to be FREE–uninhibited. I don’t think that all writing is meant to be shared–we can write at different times for different reasons. But sometimes I will return to what I thought was solely personal, intimate writing, and realize that it’s something I’d like to revise and share. And sometimes not. That’s what’s so amazing about writing. I’m glad you’ve found it as a tool for personal healing and growth–this is a stereotype and very possibly untrue, but it seems like men are more resistant to the idea of writing as a tool for emotional processing and personal growth.