I have spent a great deal of my life thinking "I want to be a writer!" I have contemplated pen names and copyrights and fame. After all, when one is dreaming, why not dream big? And I have spent some time writing. I have entered quirky contests and picked at novels. I have plucked poetry from the wrinkled folds of my brain, little tidbits of memory melded to imagination and a hope that springs eternal (if cliches are permitted).
I have even tried my hand at a blog, worrying between words whether something I said would flag the attention of a friend or a family member, whether the writer-friend who has ceased writing will see censure in my own black-and-white frustrations, whether the father who told me to dream big might assure me it's okay to scale back, whether the potential boyfriend might ask when/where I will publish. I worried too much and all the time. It is my nature.
For the past few years I have felt myself on the brink. Depending on the person who asks and my mood of the moment, I might say it's the brink of success. But, here, in the anonymity of the blogosphere, I'll admit the better word is failure.
I want to write. I have stacks on stacks of pages I have written, but the dust has long since settled on the top-most page and I have more edits to do than I can comprehend doing. I pick at poetry and applaud every sentence I eke out. But the truth is...I am not writing like I should.
And I thought this blog, this new blog, absent any ties to my real name or prior endeavors, absent judgment from friends old and new, will allow me a public reckoning with myself.
The plan....to document my progress, my frustrations, my fears...here and thus find a way to be honest with myself.